The Wailing Woman
by aussiemel1
Summary: Sam and Dean investigate the death of a hunter, but if Dean doesn't figure out why a woman's crying is keeping him awake at night it may mean the death of him.  It's Dean getting hurt, Sam getting frustrated and in the end a slight unravelling.
1. Chapter 1

Hey all. This isn't exactly a new story, I wrote it a while back, but I've fooled around with it a bit, made some improvements (I hope).

The timing of this story is some time late in season 1, lets say after Hell House. It has no connection to my previous fic.

Hope you enjoy.

And as always, I have no business messing with Supernatural. But it's just so much fun.

**

* * *

**

Chapter 1

Dean woke with a start to the pitch black and had no idea where he was. A motel somewhere. It was always a motel somewhere.

Slowly, his sleep addled brain put the pieces together, new job, new town, and he was currently enjoying the comforts of the Double D Motel. A smile spread across his face. When they had driven past the motel he had convinced Sam that they _had_ to stay here. The possibility that the female staff hiring policy may be reflected in the name was too good to pass by. He entertained images of large breasted women catering to his needs, and that _demanded_ that they give the Double D a shot. Sam called him juvenile but had no real reason to object to the choice, motels on the whole were much of a muchness and Dean had got his way. He really hoped the place lived up to its promsie.

He raised himself on his elbows, just enough to see the lcd display on the motel clock, and was unimpressed by the reading. 2.13am? He flopped heavily back onto the pillows with a huff of annoyance. It was no time to be awake, it wasn't like him to have an interrupted sleep, that was more Sam's deal. He closed his eyes, trying to find slumber but there was a prickling unease at the back of his neck. Something had woken him, something wasn't right and he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.

Dean lay listening in the dark. He could hear Sam's regular breathing in the next bed. It wasn't often that he heard Sam sleeping, his younger brother tended to go to bed later and get up earlier. It was nice hearing Sam so peaceful and relaxed, Dean often worried about his brother's screwed up sleep patterns, it was a relief to discover that Sam was capable of deep sleep, Dean was starting to wonder.

The appreciation of his brother's restfulness was interrupted by the sounds of a woman crying. It began as a low sobbing moan and quickly intensified to a loud, unpleasant wailing. The woman was distraught. But it wasn't an urgent crying, it didn't sound like she was in any physical danger, she was just outrageously upset about something.

After listening to the sound for a minute Dean debated with himself whether he should get up and offer assistance. Consoling women was not his forte.

_This is not my problem_ Dean told himself. _At 2.13 in the morning, it is not my problem. _

He rolled over and tried to ignore the crying, but it was so irritatingly loud, it was impossible to disregard. There was no way he could sleep while the wailing continued. With a deep sigh he kicked off the blankets, felt around for his jeans and shirt and dressed himself hastily.

With eyes now accustomed to the darkness, Dean's gaze darted toward his younger brother and he was amazed that Sam hadn't stirred. He frowned, finding his brother's stillness a little unsettling, usually Sam was disturbed by much less, but he concluded that the combined soporific effects of a long drive and a poor sleep history had driven Sam into a deeper sleep than usual. It provided Dean with an added incentive to find the woman and comfort her, cut short the crying, to allow Sam to continue enjoying the rest he obviously needed.

As he stood to leave, it occurred to Dean that he about to head into an unknown situation; he didn't know why the woman was crying, he didn't know what he was going to find and it wouldn't hurt to have a gun on him. Just in case. He reached under his bed and grabbed the handgun he had stowed there earlier, shoving it into the back of his jeans, and smoothing down his shirt to make the tell-tale lump as inconspicuous as possible. He wanted to be prepared but he didn't want to appear threatening.

When he stepped out the door the cold air hit him hard and he considered going back inside to grab his jacket. After a moment's indecision he figured he wouldn't be out for long and closed the door quietly behind him. The woman was still crying and the hunter walked the few steps to the next room, expecting the woman to be inside, the paper thin walls failing to contain her sorrow, but as he put his ear to the darkened window he was surprised to find that the noise wasn't coming from within. He straightened, closed his eyes and tried to get a lock on where the crying was coming from, then opened his eyes in confusion and pressed his ear once again to the window he had just listened to. The sound definitely wasn't coming from inside and his brain couldn't quite process it. When the crying was _that_ loud, _that_ close, and seemed to be coming from that direction, where else could the woman be?

A quick visual surveillance of the area revealed no-one around and there were no lighted rooms, so Dean slowly reconnoitered the motel trying to find the distraught woman. Whether it was a trick of the wind or the acoustics off the L-shaped building, as he moved, the sorrowful sounds seemed to echo around him, sometimes coming from his left, sometimes coming from his right and it was frustratingly difficult to use the noise to guide his movements.

After wandering past all the rooms without coming to any conclusions, Dean stood shivering at his doorstep, unsure of his next move and lacking the motivation to continue the search. He couldn't believe no-one else had left their room to investigate, he guessed there were many people laying in their beds right now silently cursing the woman.

Only because he knew that it would be pointless returning to bed, that he would be unable to sleep while the crying continued, did Dean begin another slow investigation of the area. His senses were acute as he looked and listened for some clue to the woman's location and he was baffled by his inability to find her. He started to wonder if it was some sort of elaborate hoax, his mind was thinking laterally, trying to find an explanation for why a simple task was proving so difficult.

He was walking through the carpark pondering his theory, looking for speakers or microphones or anything of that ilk, when suddenly there was silence. An eerie and unexpected silence, like the woman had been forcibly cut off. Dean stopped short and whirled 360 degrees looking for ….anything…..something. Some clue as to what was going on. He stood still, barely breathing, listening for the crying to start up again. But as the seconds ticked by and the cold started to seep inside him, Dean concluded that the incident was over and slowly walked back to his room. He hesitated outside his door and surveyed the motel one last time. With a mystified shake of his head the young man reluctantly went inside, re-stowed the gun, took off his jeans and shirt then threw himself onto the bed.

That was strange. And annoying. He'd wasted some good sleeping time on that search.

"Were you just outside?" he heard groggily from the next bed.

"Go to sleep Sam," Dean replied, disappointed that not only had he just engaged in a fruitless search, but he also hadn't prevented his brother from being woken, and his tone was a little harsh as a result.

"What's up?" the groggy voice persisted and Dean could hear his brother shifting in the bed.

"Nothing Sam," Dean softened his voice, trying to soothe his brother. "Go to sleep, there's nothing up."

Sam was placated by the response and soon his breathing became deep and regular once more. Dean lay awake going over in his mind what had occurred. He was disquieted. He couldn't convince himself of the hoax theory, the crying had sounded too human, too real, it hadn't sounded like a reproduction. Which brought him back to the unsatisfactory premise that a woman had been crying nearby and he'd been unable to locate her.

_It was just a woman crying, _he told himself, trying to calm his overactive thoughts,_ what's the big deal?_

But the whole thing had been odd. How could the crying have sounded so close yet the woman be undiscoverable? And why had it ended so abruptly? He was concerned by that, a little worried that the woman may have come to some harm. Not that he could blame whoever may have done the harming, that crying was like fingernails down a chalkboard.

The hunter tried to shake his mind clear and get back to sleep, the incident was over, he had done his best to offer help and there was nothing more he could do about it, he wasn't about to call the police. He closed his eyes and ran the assurance through his head again _there's nothing more you can do about it. _

But there was much counting of sheep before he was able to return to his dreams.

--

"Would you like a top up sweetie?" the middle aged waitress addressed Dean with a hospitable smile.

"Oh hell yes," he returned, flashing her a grateful grin.

When the waitress moved away Sam said, "I can't believe I didn't hear it."

"You and me both," Dean agreed.

"I mean I heard you get up, but I don't remember hearing any crying." The younger man was genuinely perplexed at the story his brother had told of the crying woman. It was well established that Sam was the light sleeper and Dean could sleep through anything, the reversal was confusing.

"And it was loud man. I was expecting to meet the whole motel in the carpark."

Sam frowned, baffled at how he could have missed it. "And you never found the woman?"

The older man shook his head. "Damned if I know where she was. Somewhere close though."

Dean didn't mention the possibility that it may have been a hoax. He was fairly confident that it wasn't, and he didn't want to plant that seed in his brother's head for fear that Sam would grab onto it and dismiss the whole incident out of hand, turn it into something to joke about.

He stifled a yawn and took a guzzle of coffee, wincing at the bitterness. It tasted awful but the brown liquid was strong and that's what he wanted right now, an excess of caffeine to counter the sleep deprivation.

Sam regarded his brother and toyed with the idea that Dean may have dreamt the whole thing. _That_ was easier for Sam to believe than that he had slept through such a disturbance.

"So why are we here again?" Dean broke the silence. They had arrived in town late yesterday, Sam had said something about a newspaper article, possible job, Dean had only been half listening.

Sam took out his note-book. "David Evans" he read. "Killed himself"

"And I care why?" Dean asked with a slight frown.

"David Evans is mentioned in Dad's journal. I think he was a hunter. It looks like he helped Dad out on a few occasions. I don't know, maybe he killed himself, maybe he didn't. I just thought it would be worth looking into."

"Why?"

Sam glanced up from his notes in surprise, the question unexpected. They had discussed the job yesterday, Sam had told his brother where they were going and why, it was a little late to be asking questions about it when they had already made the long drive.

"What do you mean?" Sam countered.

"People kill themselves all the time Sam. Why should we get involved?"

"Don't you think it's interesting that he's mentioned in Dad's journal and turns up dead?"

Dean gave his brother a dubious look. "In a word? No. Why would you think the two are related? He was probably some loser who couldn't get a date and killed himself rather than face another night at home with Mrs Palmer and her five daughters." The hunter held up his hand and waved his fingers around, delighting in his brother's look of disgust.

Sam was aghast at the insensitivity and, though it was off topic, couldn't help but ask, "Is that really why you think people kill themselves? Because they can't get a date?"

"Sure," the older brother replied matter of factly. "What's there to live for if you can't get a date?" Dean pointed at his brother. "Something for you to think about."

Sam was aware that Dean was baiting him but still he was horrified at the sentiment. "You're unbelievable," the young hunter muttered and received an infuriating smirk in response, Dean smug about pushing his buttons. "So are we going to look into this death or not?" Sam demanded testily.

"Yeah yeah, we're here now, we may as well take a look," Dean added under his breath, "at this waste of time." Then more volubly, "And when we're done here I'm choosing the next job. I'll find us some real shit to hunt."

"Fine," Sam huffed and continued in a mumble, "you could have chosen _this_ job if you'd gotten off your lazy ass."

"Excuse me?"

Sam continued reading through his notes, "Looks like Evans owned a hunting store in the area. What do you want to do first, go to the store or check out his house?" As Sam looked up from his notepad he could see Dean was now looking interested. In the hunting store, not in David Evans.

"Hunting store" was the quick response.

Sam smiled to himself. Dean liked hunting stores the way kids liked a candy store. He would walk around slowly, gaze longingly at the deadly weapons, ask questions about new equipment, fire off a few rounds if there was a target range in the back. It was kind of sick actually. But completely understandable given their lifestyle.

"I see we're interested now," Sam noted wryly.

Dean fixed an unimpressed expression on his brother, "Your choice of job sucks and I think you should be ashamed of yourself for bringing us here. But a hunting store owned by a 'hunter'", Dean did the bunny ears with his fingers and Sam couldn't help but smile, "could be cool. Definitely worth checking out."

Sam nodded in mock agreement. _Oh yeah, checking out weapons of death, that's cool alright. _But he didn't take issue with Dean, he was happy to see some interest. "Hunting store it is."

Dean wasn't enthused about the job. Sam was usually a little more discerning in the hunts he chose for them. _Some guy killed_ _himself?_ _Big frigging deal._ Since when was that their kind of gig? There was nothing about it that would ordinarily attract their interest, just because the dead guy was a hunter, and someone their father knew, didn't mean he had suffered a supernatural death or that there was anything here to hunt. He fully expected that in a couple of days they were going to come to the conclusion that yep, the guy killed himself alright.

He looked around for the waitress to top him up again, with a feeling that he was going to need a lot of coffee to keep him awake through this one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The business suited Winchesters introduced themselves to the manager of the hunting store owned by David Evans as insurance men, looking to finalise the life insurance policy of the owner. The manager, Warwick Dunn, a young man probably not more than 25, didn't appear to find the visit suspicious and led them to a small office at the back of the store.

As they walked past the hunting equipment, Dean craned his neck trying to take in all the stock, and let out low grunts of approval when he saw a weapon that appealed to him. Sam gave him a stern look, a _be professional _look, that the older brother returned with upturned palms and an offended drawdown of the eyebrows, always annoyed when Sam tried to assert some authority.

Once settled in the office, the brothers perched on vinyl cushioned, straight metal legged chairs which seemed deliberately uncomfortable, designed to discourage prolonged conversation, Dean explained to the young manager the reason for their visit.

"We need to ask you some questions about Mr Evans in the days before his death. We want to make sure Mr Evans did in fact kill himself. There's a difference in the payout under the policy for suicide and some other cause of death."

Warwick looked between the insurance men in surprise. "He hung himself," the young man stated flatly, clearly implying that such a death _could only_ be suicide.

"Looks like," Dean responded with a wry smile and a darted gaze toward Sam, expressing his silent agreement that the death seemed pretty unambiguous. "But we still gotta be thorough."

"I thought the police had already ruled it a suicide."

"Yeah, well," Dean shifted in the chair, gave a huff of laughter, "the police are keen to close their file, they don't always get the facts." Whatever the police had concluded wasn't a convincing argument as far as he was concerned.

"So you think it was something else?" Warwick frowned, not sure that he wanted to entertain the idea of _something else_, perhaps his boss being murdered.

Sam quickly jumped in, "We have no opinion on the matter. If the police have ruled it a suicide then it probably was, but we need to get some background information, in case the payout is challenged by any of the relatives."

That made sense. The young manager's head bobbed up and down in response to Sam's explanation and his features relaxed at the idea that his two visitors weren't investigating his boss's death so much as covering their asses.

"What was Mr Evan's state of mind in the days leading up to his death," Dean asked.

Warwick thought for minute. "You know, it's hard to tell with him. He was an odd guy, didn't say much."

"Odd how?"

"I don't know." Warwick fiddled with a pen, reluctant to continue, not wanting to speak ill of the dead, especially if it might get back to the relatives. "He used to spend hours in this office looking at guns and making notes. He was _very_ into guns." The manager gave the boys a knowing look, like an interest in guns signified some personality aberration. The inference offended Dean. "He didn't spend much time socializing with the staff. He was away a lot on hunting trips, he kind of left us to run the place without him."

Dean queried, "Did you notice anything strange around here in the days or weeks before his death?"

"Like what?"

"You know, strange noises, strange smells, power failures, anything out of the ordinary."

There was an uncertain silence from Warwick at the question, his brow furrowed. "Strange smells? What do you mean strange smells?"

"I just mean anything unusual," Dean clarified. Warwick obviously wasn't a hunter or he'd be thinking about sulfur.

"What sort of smells?"

"Don't worry about the smells, just anything unusual."

"You mean like a dead animal or something, that sort of smell?"

"Not necessarily smells..."

"Because sometimes customers bring in a carcass, to show what they bagged. And that can smell."

"It doesn't have to be smells. Forget about smells," Dean cried impatiently. "_Forget_ about smells," he repeated with a chopping motion.

A stunned silence settled over the group. He could feel Sam's eyes boring into him, no doubt with some sort of _be professional_ message blazing in them and he wanted to object_ how can I be professional when we're dealing with a moron?_ The hunter took a calming breath, leaned forward intently on his chair and continued with overly precise pronounciation that bordered on insulting, "Was there anything unusual, not just smells, we're moving beyond smells now, _anything_ that happened in the store, which was out of the ordinary, in the days leading up to Evans death?"

Warwick still looked uncertain about what Dean was asking and replied hesitantly, "No."

"Okay, thank you, that's what I was looking for," Dean griped.

"Why would anything unusual happen in the store? This wasn't where he killed himself." Warwick couldn't get a grip on where the line of questioning was going.

"We're just asking standard question," Sam said and gave Warwick a forced smile. Sam could see that they were losing the manager, he was starting to get suspicious and if they didn't wrap it up soon he would be asking about just where they were from. "Was Mr Evans different at all in the days leading up to his death?"

"Yeah he was," the manager replied and that got both brothers attention.

"How?" Sam prompted.

"Dave was usually a depressed kind of guy, didn't say much, didn't smile much but a few days before he died he got himself a girlfriend and he was _really_ into her." Warwick's eyes went wide to emphasize the statement. "I saw Dave the day before he died, he was going out that night with this new girl and he was looking for suggestions about nice places to take her. He was chatty, he was upbeat, he seemed really happy. It was weird."

Without even looking at Sam, Dean could feel his brother's triumphant glare. _So Evans wasn't a dateless loser. _

Dean asked, "Do you know the girlfriend's name or phone number? We'd really like to talk with her."

"Kimberley something. Sorry that's all I know, they'd only been together a few days. I kind of assumed she must have dumped him and that's why he killed himself, he didn't have a lot of luck with the opposite sex."

It was Dean's turn to fix his brother with a triumphant glare. _Oh_ _yeah,_ _dateless loser, what did I say?_

"Do you know how they met?" Sam asked.

"Yeah at a bar. Um." Warwick searched his memory and then found what he was looking for. "The Hunter."

Dean nearly choked and tried to hide it with a cough. Warwick misunderstood the start and commented wryly, "Yeah I know, he owned a hunting store and drank at The Hunter. Dave had an odd sense of humour."

The boys stood up satisfied that they had learned all they could from the young manager and thanked Warwick for his help. As they were leaving Dean turned back and said, "Hey listen, on the way in I saw a gun that I wouldn't mind taking a closer look at-."

"Dean." Sam barked and pushed his brother through the door.

As they headed for the car Dean mumbled complaints about being manhandled which Sam ignored. He loosened his tie then commented, "Don't you think The Hunter is a little bit obvious for a hunter to go to? Not exactly keeping a low profile."

"It's probably on Hunter St or something," responded Sam, always the practical one. "Probably doesn't have anything to do with actual hunting."

"David Evans went there" Dean pointed out.

"He probably appreciated the irony," Sam countered.

"We really need to find Kimberley," Dean mused out loud. "I think she's the key to all this."

Sam nodded his head in quiet agreement.

--

At about 9 o'clock that night Sam and Dean made their entrance at The Hunter. It was more of a reconnaissance mission than a fact finding mission. They didn't know Kimberley's last name or have a photo so it was unlikely they would get any leads in that direction, but they thought it worthwhile to get a feel for the place, find out what sort of crowd it attracted. And Dean was keen for a beer. Or two. Sam was here for the job, but Dean was here for some fun, he had to take it where he could get it.

The Hunter was an old building that had been given a trendy makeover. It was mutton dressed as lamb, dimly lit to make the place and the crowd appear more attractive. It seemed to attract a decent sized patronage, Sam estimated there to be about a hundred people in the place, mostly around their age. The boys walked across the wooden floor toward the bar and female heads turned in their direction or inspected them surreptitiously over half full glasses. It made Sam self conscious, caused him to slouch and keep his head down, quicken his pace. Dean, however, drew his shoulders straight, slowed to a saunter, allowed prospective admirers to draw in a long eyeful while he purposefully kept his eyes ahead, playing hard to get.

When they reached the bar, Sam broke away from his brother and commandeered a table in a quiet corner. Dean was pleased to see that the bartender was female. He ordered two beers and while the bartender was pouring he flashed a charming smile and asked matter of factly, "Do you know anyone here named Kimberley."

The bartender eyed him suspiciously. "Cop?"

"God no," Dean responded. He didn't feel the need to elaborate.

The bartender regarded him closely, examining him for any tells that he may be undercover and decided that he looked okay. Actually he looked better than okay, he looked pretty frigging good.

She glanced down at his left hand for a ring before enquiring, "Does this Kimberley work here?"

"I'm not sure," Dean had to concede.

The bartender gave him a wan smile. "Well I don't know of anybody works here called Kimberley and customers don't usually tell me their name." She moved in closer. "But I wouldn't mind knowing yours."

Dean smiled. "Maybe later," he teased. She gave him a wink then moved to serve the next customer.

"Friendly staff," Dean commented as he handed Sam his beer.

"I'm sure," Sam replied with a roll of his eyes.

"The bartender didn't know anyone named Kimberley."

"Yeah." Sam wasn't surprised, without a last name or photo it was a long shot. "We'll go to David Evan's house tomorrow, maybe he has a photo or phone number or something."

"Yeah maybe," Dean answered distractedly, his attention taken by a beautiful woman walking across the room. He took a swig of his beer and unashamedly stared, appreciating her curves and motion, his eyes languidly working their way up and down her body, not flinching when she caught his gaze. He straightened though, tempered the lecherous look with guarded caution when she stopped at the table, unsure what reaction he was going to receive to his open appreciation.

"Hi, I'm Casey," she purred, her eyes on Dean, leaning toward him on the introduction before flicking her eyes to Sam. "I saw you guys come in and I wanted to come over and stake my claim before someone else did."

Sam's eyebrows twitched in displeasure, he was taken aback by such forwardness, found it unattractive, but Dean's eyes shone with amusement. "I see. Just who are you staking your claim on?" Dean asked with a half smile.

"I'm not sure yet," she replied, the tip of her tongue making a quick flirtatious appearance on her bottom lip. "Depends on which one of you wows me."

Sam broke away from the young woman's gaze, shifted his eyes to the beer in his hand. He found Casey's confidence off-putting and was politely expressing his disinterest. He hoped Dean would do the same, but a sidelong glance told him that his older brother was keen and Sam sighed inwardly. It would be nice if for once they could go to a bar without Dean hooking up.

"If it's a wowing you're looking for, you'll want to direct your attention this way," Dean said with a casual self assurance that made the woman smile. "I'm Dean, this is my brother Sam."

"Hey Sam," Casey said dismissively, giving the younger Winchester the briefest of looks, before drawing a chair close to where Dean sat.

"Hey," the young hunter replied half heartedly, feeling the evening closing in around him as he took on the role of third wheel.

As Dean and Casey flirted, Sam surveyed the bar, looking for something distinctive about the place or the people who frequented it. As far as he could tell it was your typical middle class bar, much nicer than some of the dives they had been to on their journey. Crowd was normal, place was normal, whatever happened to David Evans, didn't look like it had anything to do with this place.

Sam was trying to ignore the whispering and giggling coming from his left. Talk about awkward. He didn't know whether to try and engage Casey in conversation, involve himself in the group dynamic, or just find an excuse to leave? He was pretty sure there would be no objections to his leaving. Sam's dilemma was resolved by the sound of chairs being pushed back as Dean and Casey stood.

"We're going to find somewhere a bit more quiet," Dean explained to his brother, with suggestively raised eyebrows that added _don't wait up_. "Are you okay to get back to the motel?"

"Yeah sure," the younger man replied with a false smile. _You can strand me here while you go and have fun with some random bimbo, no problem_. That was fast work, even for Dean, he hadn't even bought her a drink yet. He watched his brother leave with an arm loosely draped around the shoulders of his new conquest and wondered how Dean could find any comfort in such shallow encounters. They were very different men.

Sam finished his beer then played with the empty glass for a few minutes, before deciding to leave. A bar wasn't his scene. And he couldn't find any professional reason to stay, there was no more information to be gleaned tonight.

He stood outside in the night air assessing where would be the best place to hitch a lift from when he heard a crash in the alley behind him. He looked around and in the dim light he could see Dean being held by the throat against the wall by his beautiful friend.

"Hey!" Sam called.

Casey looked his way, her eyes narrowed as she considered him. Dean was gasping for air, clutching at the hand at his throat, trying to loosen the grip. Sam prepared to barrel tackle the woman, took a few steps toward her, but she read the intent in his eyes and threw Dean between them before bolting down the dark alley. Sam tried to catch his brother, made an awkward fumbling grab to prevent him from hitting the ground, but he was inches short of the mark, and Dean landed heavily on the concreted path.

The older man slowly rolled onto his hands and knees sucking in air as his younger brother stooped at his side.

"What happened?" Sam asked.

"I don't know," Dean managed to choke out.

Sam grasped Dean's upper arm and pulled him his feet, firming his grip when Dean swayed on unsteady legs. The older Winchester panted, swallowing large gulps of air, trying to catch up on the oxygen that had been denied and find his normal breathing pattern.

Sam wound his arm around his brother shoulders in order to support him, but Dean pushed him away. The night had already been a humiliation he didn't need it compounded by having his brother carry him to the car.

--

Half an hour later they were back at the motel. Dean lay on the bed with a hand over his eyes eager for Sam to turn out the light so the day could be laid to rest. He ached all over. His head was pounding, his throat felt sore and his shoulder kept twinging where he had hit the ground. The night's encounter kept running through his mind. He'd been attacked by a woman. A beautiful woman - which for some reason made it worse. A beautiful woman he thought was into him.

It was all so terrible.

"Did she ask for your money?"

Sam had been asking questions all the way back to the motel, trying to understand what had happened in the few minutes that Dean had been out of his sight. He paced the room restlessly, moved the puzzle pieces around in his head and vainly sought some explanation for what had occurred.

"No."

"Did you offend her?"

"No."

"Did you go too far….you know, um, sexually?"

Dean took the hand away from his face so that he could give his brother a look of disbelief. That question sealed it, it was officially the worst night ever. Not only was Sam asking a question of a sexual nature, which was horrifying, but he seemed to be insinuating that Dean had somehow provoked the attack, that he had lost control or pushed his luck. Christ that was insulting.

Sam could see in his brother's face that he was offended and tried to backtrack on the question. "I don't mean you meant to go too far, I just meant-" but he couldn't find a way to amend that question without it being offensive.

The older hunter put up his hand to stop Sam saying any more. He'd had enough of the conversation, enough of being insulted.

"Sam I told you what happened. She pulled me into the alley way, told me I was bad, which I thought was good, then she started choking me. That's it. End of story."

"So inside the bar conversation is normal, then outside she wants to kill you."

"Yes."

"No explanation?"

"No."

Sam thought about that for a minute. "A little odd don't you think?"

"Yes, Sam, of course it's odd," Dean retorted, eyes narrowed at Sam like he may be an idiot.

"So why do you think she did it?"

"I don't know. PMS?"

Sam looked at his brother quizzically, not sure if he was joking or offering a serious suggestion. In the end he pretended that he hadn't heard. "Do you think she was possessed? She seemed pretty strong."

"I don't know. Maybe," Dean answered doubtfully. "Maybe she just works out."

"So what did you talk about in the bar?"

"You were there," Dean snapped, exasperated. "You heard what we were talking about. Nothing special."

Dean doubted that continuing the speculation would arrive at any logical explanation for the incident, it was just one of those things, an aberration of human behaviour, he didn't particularly want to get to the bottom of it, he just wanted to stop talking about it, put it in the past and move on.

"We have been over this, I have told you everything I know. Would you just drop it."

"But Dean this could be related to how David Evans died. I mean Evans dies after meeting a woman at a bar and then you nearly get killed by a woman you met at the same bar. That's some coincidence."

"Yeah, huge coincidence."

"No it couldn't be," Sam's hands waved around in emphasis of his words. "I mean it was, but it's too much of a coincidence, they've got to be related."

"No Sam, they don't!"

The flatness of Dean tone, the finality to the statement, the undercurrent of anger, convinced Sam it was time to leave the subject alone. His brother's limit had been reached and trying to pursue the conversation further was only going to end in disagreement, possibly violence.

Sam sighed and dropped his head in resignation. He wanted to get to the bottom of this, it made no sense. Casey had been keen on his brother, _she'd_ come up to _him_, so what was behind the attack? Robbery? Mistaken identity? Psychopath?

And what would have happened if Sam hadn't decided to leave when he did? That was a sobering thought. If Sam hadn't intervened, hadn't happened upon the scene when he did, his brother could have been killed.

The young man threw himself onto his bed, reached over and turned out the light, but stayed seated upright, leaning against the headboard with arms crossed against his chest. His mind whirled under a barrage of unanswerable questions and a simmering dissatisfaction that discussion had been prematurely closed down. He cast a sidelong glance at his brother through the darkness, and noticed Dean was laying with his hands folded under his head, staring at the ceiling. He was still ruminating over what had occurred, despite his reluctance to discuss the subject and it almost made Sam reopen the conversation but he figured he would be better to leave the topic for now and raise it again later.

He kicked off his shoes, undressed a layer of clothing and made himself comfortable in the bed, although he didn't feel at all tired and knew sleep wasn't going to come easily.

Dean was silent, didn't offer a goodnight in fear that Sam would interpret it as an invitation to start talking. He needed to think things through alone, logically and objectively, reach his own conclusions without Sam trying to guide or persuade him, because he knew that come morning, what had occurred with Casey was going to be a debated topic and he wanted to be ready with some theories.


	3. Chapter 3

Remember I said that I wrote this story ages ago? Well re-reading it I didn't like the direction it took, so I'm pretty much rewriting it. Which means I'm not getting the chapters up as quickly as I had planned. Sorry about that. And even worse, I have no idea how this story is going to end up. lol. Oh well, it will be a nice surprise for all of us.

* * *

Chapter 3 

Dean woke with a start. It was pitch black and he had no idea where he was, a motel somewhere.

Wait, the Double D motel. Dean smiled in the darkness. That name never failed to amuse him. Although he hadn't seen any evidence yet that the name reflected the motel hiring policy. He may have to lodge a complaint, accuse the manager of false advertising.

He looked over at the motel clock. 2.10? Godammit! His body ached from the attack of a few hours ago and tonight he really needed to sleep. He lay back on the pillows, listening. And waiting.

Moments later the sound of a woman crying reached his ears. It started low and then became so loud that Dean thought the woman might injure herself. _Seriously lady, what is your problem?_ What was with the two o'clock mourning? She couldn't mourn at lunch time?

Dean lay still. _Just wait it out_ he told himself_ it won't last long._ But the minutes seemed to pass extra slowly and finally he kicked off the blankets. He didn't want to get up, he would have much preferred to stay in the warm bed, but there was no way he could sleep with all that noise, and laying in bed listening to it was like a form of torture. As he sat up his body cried out in objection. His shoulder was killing him, it was stiff and sore and he could imagine there was a sizeable bruise under his t-shirt. He gave it some slow rolls to try and work out the kinks.

Whatever the woman's problem was, tonight Dean wasn't feeling sympathetic. He was going to find this woman and when he did, there was going to be some serious words exchanged about motel etiquette.

With eyes adjusted to the darkness, Dean looked over to see if Sam was stirring. No movement from the other bed. _How can he sleep through this_? Dean marvelled. The older brother thought about leaving the younger to sleep while he went looking for the woman, but it seemed unfair that for the second night in a row his sleep was broken while Sam slept through. Tonight he wasn't going to bear it alone.

"Hey," Dean called and threw a pillow at the younger man, catching him square in the head.

Sam was startled into wakefulness. "What? Huh?"

Dean fumbled for his jeans and shirt then dressed himself gingerly, trying to avoid the aches and pains. "Where are you dude?" he asked. "This crying is driving me insane and you're catching zees."

"What?" Sam replied groggily. "What's going on?"

"What's going on?" Dean threw the words back at Sam with disbelief. "Are you freaking kidding me? What are you hard of hearing?"

In the darkness Sam raised himself onto his elbows. "I don't hear anything."

_Bad time for joking around_ Dean thought, he was not in the mood. Between his aching body and the annoying wailing, he had lost his sense of humour. "Okay, you're very funny, I get it. Now get dressed so we can go and find that bitch."

Sam turned on the lamp between the beds and both men had to blink against the jarring light.

"I don't hear anything."

Dean was about to make a sarcastic remark, flicked an irritated glare in his brother's direction in preparation, but a look at Sam's face halted him, told him that Sam wasn't fooling around, he meant what he said. "What?" How could Sam not hear the crying, it was so loud. _He hasn't woken up properly, he'll hear it in a minute_ Dean told himself. He continued buttoning up his shirt still intent on finding the wailing woman. "Can you hear it now?"

"No."

Dean fixed an intent gaze on his brother, just to be absolutely sure that Sam wasn't joking, then his fingers stopped fumbling with the buttons and he sat on the edge of his bed uncertainly, his brows furrowing. "So you don't hear a woman crying?"

Sam shook his head and rolled his legs over the side of the bed to sit up, feeling very much awake.

What the hell was going on? Dean felt like he was in a dream that had taken a nonsensical turn. Maybe it was a dream, maybe he was fast asleep right now and this was all an annoying figment of his imagination. But he suspected that was wishful thinking.

"Is she crying right now?" Sam interrupted his thoughts.

"Hell yeah," was the reply.

The brothers looked at each other, at a loss to explain why one could hear what the other couldn't.

"Maybe I've developed bionic hearing," Dean remarked.

Sam gave a short laugh. "You know it was the woman who had the bionic ear," he pointed out.

"Or dog hearing," the older man continued, actually considering whether such a thing could happen, whether one too many knocks to the head could make his hearing more acute.

"Well you are a bit of a dog," Sam agreed glibly.

"And you're my bitch," Dean returned.

Just then there was a renewed vigour in the woman's crying that had the older hunter on his feet. "Oh man, I can't take this, I've got to find that woman."

"Dean, I'm not sure that she exists," Sam commented uncertainly. "I think you may be imagining it." The younger brother cringed at how that sounded. _Imagining it?_ That wasn't going to go down well. He may as well have said _You're losing it Dean. Let me just call the men in white coats._

"Don't patronize me," Dean replied in a low growl, his posture stiffening. "I know what I can hear."

"Yeah I'm not saying you can't hear it, I'm saying that _I_ can't hear it." _That's not helping_ Sam thought.

"So if you can't hear it, it can't be real? It's just me _imagining_ things is it?"

There was a dangerous edge to Dean's tone that Sam didn't miss, he knew he was on thin ice. "No, its just-" the younger man started then decided it would be best to shut up. Truth was he didn't know what to think. The restless pacing that Dean had begun was evidence that something was affecting him, but whatever it was, it was for Dean's ears only and Sam had no explanation for that. Which was worrying. Sam had no doubt it wasn't good, inexplicable things never were.

Dean reached under the bed and grabbed his gun, then put it in the back of his jeans with a pointed look at his brother, a look that challenged Sam to try and stop him from making his search. Sam decided not to take up that challenge and Dean headed for the door. The hunter had taken only two steps into the cold night air when the crying stopped, suddenly and unexpectedly, like someone had put their hand over the woman's mouth.

"Son of a bitch," Dean yelled into the night then stomped back into the motel room.

"What?" Sam asked.

"She's stopped crying."

Dean was furious. What the hell was going on tonight? One woman tries to kill him, another tries to drive him insane with phantom crying. Were the two related or was he just cursed? A quick glance at his brother with a _don't say anything _look in his eye kept Sam quiet, while he took a deep breath to calm himself. He took the gun out of his jeans and re-stowed it under the bed. He should have taken off his jeans and shirt, but he was too pissed off to be bothered, instead he threw himself onto the bed and lay there with his arms folded across his chest, staring at the ceiling.

Sam ran his hands through his unruly hair and sat on the edge of his bed looking at Dean. His brother's body language was closed, he clearly didn't want to talk about it.

"Okay can we recap here-," Sam began.

"No!" Dean interjected. It was late, he was pissed off, no recaps.

The younger man sighed. There was no point trying to get Dean to talk when he wasn't in the mood it was just an exercise in frustration. But Sam was troubled by this turn of events. He was troubled by the events of the whole evening. He had planned to get down to research in the morning but after this late night disturbance he doubted he would be able to return to sleep, so he got up and turned on the laptop, hoping to find some answers.

-------

Dean awoke well after the sun was up. It had taken him ages to fall asleep after the wailing woman's disturbance, it was hard to get into a sleeping state of mind when he was that wound up but he had forced himself to do it because the alternative was some sort of deep and meaningful with Sam, and a discussion about his possibly compromised mental state held no attraction for him. He had listened to the sound of Sam's fingers tapping on the laptop keyboard, closed his eyes to the unearthly glow emitted by the screen and eventually sleep had come. But not before he had heard Sam sigh a few times, clearly unhappy with the information he was finding. _I don't want to know_ he had told himself and forced his mouth to stay shut against the obvious question _what did you find?_ Whatever it was, it could wait until morning.

The hunter brought his arms up to cross under his head, forgetting that his shoulder was sore. "Ow," he complained quietly when he was physically reminded.

"What?" Sam was startled by his brother voice, he hadn't noticed him stir.

"Nothing," Dean stated as he sat up.

The younger man was still at the laptop poring over information, or maybe he was at the laptop again, Dean wasn't sure if he had slept and returned to the computer upon waking. Probably not. Sam probably hadn't slept since he'd been woken in the night.

Dean rolled his sore shoulder a few times to loosen it then brought his hand to his throat. There were a few tender spots, no doubt when he looked in the mirror he was going to see evidence of last nights attack in the form of bruising. He could feel when he swallowed that his throat was slightly swollen. But they were minor injuries, he'd had to cope with much worse in his life.

Out of the corner of his eye Sam saw his brother take stock of his injuries. "Do you think you should see a doctor?"

The older man rolled his eyes. Surely Sam wasn't expecting a yes to that question, for a couple of bruises? Dean thought about saying yes just to mess with his brother's head but in the end ignored the concern. "What did you find?" he nodded toward the laptop.

"I think I know what you heard last night." Sam had a grim expression and Dean knew it wasn't good news. "I think it was a banshee, a death omen."

_Of course it was_ Dean thought with a wry smile, life was going so well, why not throw a death omen into the mix. "That's just great," Dean muttered. "So what does it mean?"

"It means you're going to die."

Dean tried not to notice the haunted look in his brother's eyes as he retorted, "No shit professor. I know what a banshee is. Can you be more specific about my impending death? Like when?"

"I don't know," Sam sighed. "There's so much conflicting information, could be days, could be weeks, its impossible to say."

Dean rubbed his hands across his eyes. "Well that's really not very helpful. What about how? Anything I need to look out for, disgruntled bimbos perhaps?"

"Don't know," Sam conceded. "It could be anything, illness, accident, murder, anything."

"Well that's just frigging great. So the wailing woman really isn't telling me anything I don't already know, which is that at some point in the future I'm going to die." Dean was trying to keep his temper in check but he was feeling put upon at the moment. And it was weird talking about his death conversationally like this. _Looks like you might die this week. Really? What a bummer._

"The wailing woman is giving you a heads up that there's something bad waiting for you around the corner," Sam explained.

"Yeah, but which corner Sam? It's useless information. All that woman is doing is keeping me awake at night. And I have an urge to top myself just to make it stop. Maybe she's not so much warning of my death as trying to cause it."

"That's not the way it works Dean. She's letting you know there's danger around so that hopefully you can avoid it." Sam didn't want Dean making light of this warning, this was effectively a premonition of his death and that was some serious shit.

"Well I'm thrilled that she wants to keep me in the loop but is there any way to make her stop? Can we summon her and shoot her or something?"

"No. Killing the banshee doesn't remove the danger." Sam was outraged at the idea of killing something that was trying to do them a favour.

"Yeah, but at least I'd get some rest before I die," Dean quipped, and earned a pursed lipped, irritated tilt of the head from his brother.

Refusing to allow the mood to be lightened, Sam continued, "I've been trying to find a way to make her stop but I don't think it's possible. She's going to keep crying until you're dead or the danger has passed."

"So more sleepless nights or death. Fantastic. I'm so glad you brought us down here." The unnecessary barb slipped out before Dean could stop himself. He knew his little brother had a habit of blaming himself when bad luck occurred, he didn't need his older brother joining in the refrain.

"Hey, don't blame me. I didn't know this would happen." It was a hollow protest, Sam had already berated himself for bringing them down here and was trying to keep his creeping guilt in check. Although the rational side of him assured that this was something beyond his control, he couldn't have possibly known this was waiting for them, he still couldn't help feeling responsible.

"Yeah, okay," Dean admitted reluctantly.

"I also did a little bit of research on The Hunter," the young man continued, "Man does that place have a chequered history, you wouldn't believe how many people have died there," Sam glanced at his notebook, "So far I've found 12 men and 4 women."

Dean frowned, "That's a lot for one place."

Sam bobbed his head from side to side in not quite agreement, "The building has been there for 150 years so that's, what, one person every decade or so which probably isn't that many for a hotel and bar. I've been trying to find some sort of connection between the deaths but there's a little bit of everything, stabbings, beatings, shootings, overdose, suicide. And there's no pattern in the timings either. Trying to figure out if the attack on you last night is related to Evan's death, if Evan's death is related to the sixteen other deaths and if something supernatural is in play, is a bit like looking for a needle in a haystack."

Dean nodded in understanding. They just didn't have enough information. Evans meeting a woman at The Hunter shortly before his death and Dean being attacked by a woman at The Hunter could be entirely coincidental. Evans wasn't attacked at The Hunter and according to the police he hadn't been murdered, so The Hunter could just be a random connection between the two men.

The brothers sat lost in thought for a minute before Dean stood up and said, "I'm taking a shower. We may as well head over to Evans house and look around."

Sam looked sharply at his brother. "You're not going to Evan's house." The young hunter said it as if the idea was preposterous. "You're staying at the motel, out of harm's way."

"Oh no," Dean pointed a threatening finger at his brother. "Don't even Sam. I'm not going to be the boy in the bubble for the next month so you can get over that right now"

"Dean. Death omen. Do you have to be a stubborn ass _all_ the time?" Sam cried in annoyance.

"Pretty much."

"Can't you just lay low until we figure out what's going on?" Sam argued, but he knew it was a lost cause, his brother wasn't the sort to lay low

"Who's to say that my death isn't going to occur in this motel room?" Dean queried and left the question hanging in the air for a moment for emphasis. "Maybe by leaving this room I'll be saving my life."

Sam looked at his brother dubiously. He was far less likely to meet his end sitting quietly in a motel room than roaming around the wide world, but he couldn't argue with Dean's logic. They didn't know how, they didn't know when and they didn't know where Dean's demise was supposed to occur, so it was impossible to know when precisely Dean was in danger.

At Sam's silence Dean commented, "Exactly." He didn't like Sam taking on the protective role, it was wrong, it was demeaning. Dean didn't need his brother telling him what to do, he was quite capable of making his own decisions. And he certainly wasn't going to spend the next few weeks cowering in a motel room, that wasn't even close to a possibility. "We still have a job to do and I'm going to Evan's house to look around. You can come or not it doesn't bother me."

Dean was softened by the pained expression that crossed his brother's face but not enough to convince him he should sit in the room all day. "Sam, I get it, this is serious, I understand. But all I can do about it is keep my eyes open and be on the look out for danger." He gave his brother a reassuring smile, raising his eyebrows in a plea for understanding. "If you come with me to Evan's house, you can be my protector." Dean couldn't help but grimace at the thought of Sam being his protector.

His brother's stubbornness was going to end badly, Sam could feel it. Dean was treating this warning of death like a challenge, a dare that he wasn't going to shy away from. Why couldn't they take some precautions? Why did they have to go about their day as if nothing was wrong? It was supremely frustrating. They'd been given a heads up and Dean wasn't going to do anything about it. With a drop of his head, Sam knew he would be accompanying Dean to Evan's house that day, whether he liked it or not.


	4. Chapter 4

Things take a bit of a nasty turn in this chapter. I had some trouble figuring out where to end this chapter so its going to flow into the next one.

**

* * *

**

Chapter 4

It quickly became obvious to Dean that his brother's concern about the banshee's warning was going to manifest itself in paranoia.

At Dean's urging they stopped for a quick bite at the café they had visited yesterday and upon entering Sam insisted they sit at a table centred between the front and back doors and definitely not near a window. As they waited for their order his eyes darted furiously around, alert for anything that could lead to a fatal injury or anyone who looked like going postal.

Dean rested his chin on his hand and observed his brother with weary resignation. Sam was like a commando on a secret mission, hyper aware of everything, expecting the unexpected. It was going to become unbearable very quickly.

Dean wasn't nearly as uptight about the banshee's warning as Sam was. He was philosophical about it. What they did was dangerous, he was always aware of it. Having some chick in the night tell him he was in danger wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know. Sure he could die this week, same as any week really. He was careful, he was aware of his surrounds and he couldn't see that he could do any more than that.

From the café they drove to Evan's house and after quickly scouting around the perimeter of the two story abode to ensure it was deserted they broke in. Together they walked around looking for evidence that Evan's death was not by his own hand and for anything that could lead them to the mysterious Kimberley. Dean held his EMF meter in front of him while Sam examined photos and looked through cupboards for clues. Sam was clutching a salt loaded shotgun while Dean had a shot gun filled with iron rounds. This is where David Evans had died, at the house, and the brothers didn't know what to expect, didn't know if there was something lurking in wait. Sam thought there could be anything, Dean thought there was probably nothing, but they had come as best prepared as they could.

"Any idea which room Evans hung himself in?" Dean asked, looking around the living area, hoping to cut through a prolonged search and go straight to the scene of the crime.

"Nah." Sam dashed his brother's hopes. After a pause he added, "But you've got to ask the question, why would a guy who was so into guns hang himself?"

Dean pondered that for a moment. Had to admit it was an odd choice of death when a bullet to the brain was much more effective, but he wasn't going to speculate on the guy's state of mind without knowing more.

They did a slow methodical search of the ground level of the house, Sam staying quietly but noticeably within eyesight of Dean, causing a rising impatience within the older brother and an urge to dart into another room to find some freedom.

When they had covered the lower level without result, the boys climbed the stairs.

"You go right, I'll go left," Dean directed at the top. Sam looked uncertain but Dean didn't wait for his objection and moved left. Sam thought about shadowing his brother but realized his fears were getting out of hand, starting to get insulting and he forced himself to move right.

The house was in perfect order. Dean wasn't sure whether Evans was a neat freak or someone had cleaned up after his death. He walked into the dead man's bedroom, his eyes flicking from the electronic device in his hands to the surrounds and stopped when there was a slight reading on the meter near the window. It was only a small reading but it was consistent with a spirit having been in the house recently. He looked up at the ceiling to see if there was somewhere to attach a rope, but there was nothing. Dean was starting to think Sam had been right about this job and it was their kind of gig after all.

"Dean," Sam called.

"What?" Dean hustled to where the call came from.

Sam was in the study, a room dominated by a handsome desk, with files neatly laid on top next to a computer. A bookcase covered one wall and when Dean looked closer he saw that most of the books were about the supernatural.

Sam was reading through some papers and when Dean gave him an enquiring look he commented, "Research. It looks like Evans has been hunting a long time."

"Any photos of the new girlfriend."

"Not yet. I'm firing up the computer, maybe there's something on there."

"Well, I don't think he killed himself," Dean stated.

"Why do you say that?"

"I got a reading in the bedroom. I think something else happened here. What was he working on when he died?"

Sam shrugged. "I can't tell. There are no dates on this stuff so I don't know how old it is."

"Bring it all with us," Dean instructed and started picking up the files.

"What? No." Sam stayed Dean's hand. "Dean that's too obvious. If we take all this stuff people are going to know someone's been here. And our fingerprints are all over the house."

"The guy lives by himself. Who's gonna know?"

"He has relatives Dean, they're going to know." Sam gave his brother a reproachful look.

Dean cast his eyes to the ceiling, looking to the heavens for some patience. Stealing files was hardly the worst the thing they had ever done. "So what do you want to do?"

"Take notes. You look through the files and I'll see what's on the computer."

Dean let out a discontented moan and sat heavily in the chair opposite Sam. He suspected Sam was feeling comfortable in the house now that they'd been through it. The house was quiet, the street was quiet and to Sam that no doubt equated to safety, a haven from the omen.

The boys spent the next few hours scouring Evan's notes for clues to his death. They were alert for anyone interrupting and had agreed upon a story if they should be caught, but no-one came. The search through the material was tedious. Evan's notes were similar to their father's journal, descriptions of demons and other creatures, possible sightings, preventative measures, ways to defeat. Dean wished that he had brought their father's journal in with them to make sure he wasn't jotting down information they already had. He wasn't sure if he was copying anything that could help them with the case at hand but there were things that could prove useful for future jobs.

When Dean could no longer quiet the restlessness in his legs and the ache in his back, he stood up and stretched for a minute. "You want a coffee?" he asked his brother.

"Yeah," Sam sighed, but then got serious when he realised it wasn't just a rhetorical question, Dean was out of his chair and intending to _get_ coffee. "Wait. You going downstairs?"

"Yeah."

Even though they had searched the house and he knew that they were the only ones here, Sam felt nervous about Dean wandering around by himself. "I'll get it," Sam offered, but then thought Dean alone in the kitchen or Dean alone in the study were equally bad propositions.

"No, I'll get it," Dean retorted with annoyance. "It's just downstairs Sam." He added in a mumble, "God forbid I should go and find a Starbucks."

Sam's lips pursed unhappily as he debated whether he should join his brother in making the coffee. He knew Dean wouldn't thank him for it. If he kept affronting Dean's independence there were going to be words between them, possibly a punch to his face.

"Are you taking your gun?" Sam asked.

"I'm just making coffee," Dean retorted with a frown, but he could tell from his brother's set features that he wasn't so much asking as telling him _take your gun _and he shook his head wearily. "Of course I'm taking my gun."

"Call me if-," Sam shot his brother a serious look, not knowing how to end that sentence, so many things could happen to Dean while he was out of Sam's sight, how to limit the possibilities? "-you know..." he finished lamely.

"A car comes crashing through the wall?" Dean suggested. "You'll hear it don't worry."

In the kitchen Dean spotted the kettle on the counter and lay his gun on the countertop while he filled it with water. He turned the kettle on, then opened and closed cabinet doors until he found mugs. He crossed his fingers that Evans was a coffee drinker and leaned on the cupboard door as his eyes ran over the shelves in search.

Dean was startled by a squeal emanating from his pocket. His EMF meter was alerting him to a reading. He took it out and noticed the needle was spiking at the maximum setting. _Gun. He needed his gun. _He turned quickly, but too slow to avoid a hand grabbing him around the throat.

"Hello handsome," Casey greeted him.

As Dean was shoved backward against the cupboard door he wondered what Casey was doing there, how she had known _he_ was there. Was she stalking him?

The attack had happened so fast he hadn't drawn in a breath before she was upon him and after only a few seconds he could feel the pressure building in his head, the lack of oxygen quickly starting to affect him.

_Again with the throat_, Dean thought._ Enough with the throat._ It hadn't recovered from the last attack yet and he winced as her fingers pressed into flesh that was already tender.

"We were interrupted last night. I have to finish this," Casey stated in a business like tone.

Finish what? What was it all about? Why did she want him dead?

In the afternoon brightness Dean could recognise that Casey wasn't human. Her porcelain skin was too pale and translucent, it hadn't been noticeable in the dimly lit bar. And the hand at his neck was too cold, the absence of blood running through now apparent. But he couldn't figure out what exactly she was. Something dead, sure, but solid, he could touch her. What was dead and solid?

Questions flooded Dean's mind, running through his head with dizzying speed. He wanted to understand what was going on. Was she Kimberley? Had she killed David Evans? Was it a coincidence she was at Evan's house or had she been here before?

Thoughts whirled round and round, _who? why? what?_ But the urgent need for air made him focus. He had to put aside the unanswerable questions and get the hand away from his throat. _Now!_

She was incredibly strong. He couldn't move his head even slightly in her grip. He was sure that she could have snapped his neck or crushed his windpipe, but she was pressing against his throat just enough to close the airway, maybe to give him a fair chance to defend himself or maybe because she wanted him to suffer slowly.

Dean looked longingly at his shotgun on the countertop behind Casey, tantalizingly close but too far to reach. He flailed his arms beside him hoping they would alight on something he could use as a weapon, at this stage he was willing to consider anything solid as a potential weapon, he wasn't going to be picky about it, but there was nothing within his limited reach.

His head and lungs were screaming at him to take a breath, he had a strong sense of the clock ticking, time wasn't allowing him much leeway to extricate himself from the predicament. He tried to punch, then kick the woman but he was being held at such an angle, flat against the cupboard door, that he couldn't get any power behind his blows.

A slight smile crossed her lovely face, she was amused by his efforts to save himself and the grip on his throat tightened just a little, to emphasise who was in control of the situation. "Don't fight it Dean. It will go easier if you don't."

_Screw that_. It wasn't his style to go down without a fight. In desperation he grabbed the fingers at his throat with both hands trying to loosen the vice like grip. He lifted his legs off the kitchen floor hoping that his body would crash down to the ground and she would lose her balance, but she didn't even flinch at supporting his whole weight, it was nothing to her.

Black spots started to explode in Dean's vision, his chest was burning for air and he could feel the strength draining from him. This was it, he realised. There was no way out. This was going to be the end for him.

Killed by a chick.

The indignity of it.

And he couldn't figure out why she wanted him dead. That raised strong objections within him. There was something unfair about being executed without an explanation. Dying was one thing, it was a risk he knowingly took most days, but it was the unexpectedness of the attack, the randomness of it, the lack of opportunity to prepare and defend, that made _this _death seem so anticlimactic and pointless. He had always assumed that he would go out with a bang, not a whimper.

As he slipped into unconsciousness Dean's last thought was one of regret for Sam. He was so close by and completely oblivious. Little brother was going to take this hard.

_I'm sorry Sammy_ he silently farewelled

_-------_

As Sam waited for his brother to return with the coffees he opened a file on the computer and noticed that it contained some photographs. He clicked on the photos in quick succession, not wanting to linger on the faces of friends and family, when he came to a photo that stayed his finger upon the mouse. It looked like Casey. Sam peered closer at the computer screen. She was at The Hunter sitting at a table on the other side of the room from the camera, apparently unaware that she was being photographed. The image was distorted making it hard to tell if it was Casey or someone with the same colouring. The photo was labeled _K-SB?_ and the date stamp indicated the photo was taken the night before Evans died. Sam clicked through the rest of the photos in the file but it was back to cheerful friends and family, nothing more containing the bar.

He was about to open another file when Sam thought he heard something downstairs.

"Dean?" he called and tilted his head listening for an answer. When none came a knot formed in his stomach. "Is everything okay down there?" he called again.

When there was still no response he grabbed the sawn off shotgun that was beside him and hurried down the stairs. As he approached the kitchen he felt tight with dread about what he may find but he also felt a creeping indignation that Dean could be deliberately playing on his fears about the banshee's warning and that when he reached the kitchen his brother could be waiting to laugh at him and say _had you going didn't I_.

"How's the coffee coming," Sam called in advance. If nothing was amiss he wanted to appear nonchalant rather than the over-reactive ball of nerves he really was, if this was some sick joke he wasn't going to play into it. He entered the kitchen and stopped short with the shock of seeing his brother being held upright by the throat against the kitchen cabinets at the hand of the beautiful woman from the bar. Without even thinking Sam raised his gun and fired, the hunters instinct kicking in. The rocksalt hit the woman in the back and her body dissipated leaving a spectral figure in her wake. The hand left Dean's throat and he slid heavily to the floor.

Sam wanted to race to his brother's side but he knew before he could help Dean he had to neutralize the danger. The ghostly figure that was Casey turned to Sam and said. "I'm not here for you. He's the one I want." The young hunter answered by blasting her with the second shotgun barrel and she disappeared.

"Dean?" Sam called as he covered the distance to his brother in long strides. Dean lay unmoving on the floor and as Sam knelt beside him he could see a grey pallor to his brother's face, a bluish tinge to his lips.

"Oh God," the younger man whispered, as he frantically searched for a sign of life, and found none.

------

Casey was kissing Dean so intensely that he could barely breathe.

"You've got to stay with me" she implored. And he found that he _wanted_ to stay with her, she was beautiful and dangerous, it was an irresistible combination. But before he could say the words, give her the answer she was seeking, Casey kissed him again with an urgency and desperation that was a little overwhelming, he wished she would back off a bit and give him some space.

"Come on," she whispered, her breath on his face, claustrophobically close, "stay with me."

Another too hard kiss, and Dean felt panic tickle his insides, Casey was so much stronger than him, he felt weak and disadvantaged. He didn't like being dominated.

"Come on man." This time it was his brother talking and the unexpectedness of the voice made Dean's head spin. Where did Sam come from? Suddenly Dean wasn't sure if he was awake or dreaming, his thoughts splintered and he couldn't make sense of them, where he was or what was going on.

But overriding the confusion, was a rising concern at how much trouble he was having breathing. Air was getting caught in his throat, refusing to slide into his lungs, the muscles in his chest were pushing and pulling, trying to remember the process for taking in oxygen.

Casey kissed him again. Only it wasn't Casey this time, it was…

... oh hell no. _NoNoNoNoNo._ Sam could just stop that right now, it was way out of line, completely unacceptable.

Dean tried to yell at his brother to get off him, but he couldn't find his voice, all he could manage were some ugly grunts.

There was a hand under his head and his brother was saying "Dean?" over and over. Sam was looking for a response and Dean was physically unable to give it to him. His body was still struggling with the simple reflex of breathing, his chest was heaving, his throat kept closing at the wrong time, and he was exhausted from the effort.

Dean tried to shift his arms and legs, wondered if maybe a change of position might alleviate the strain on his lungs, but he was lacking in coordination and control. He managed _some_ movement, nothing graceful or helpful, and he was discouraged by how _hard_ it was. Breathing was hard, moving was hard, talking was hard, even opening his eyes was proving an impossible task. Dean was helpless against his body's rebellion, there was nothing he could do to improve the situation, it was all beyond his control. He had to just ride it out, give in to whatever was going on and hope the agony passed quickly.

He could feel himself being raised and with a sudden jerk knew that Sam had hefted him over his shoulder. Hanging upside down, buried into Sam's jacket, Dean was sure he was going to suffocate. He was having trouble getting air anyway, adding a degree of difficulty was going to finish him.

"Sam, I'm suffocating," was what Dean intended to say but he wasn't sure what actually came out. Whatever it was, Sam heard because he answered, "I know man, I know."

Dean's chest was on fire, a painful thumping in his head was making him question his will to live, and the rest of his body was disturbingly vague and senseless. He still didn't know where he was, he hadn't been able to clear the confusion, and at the moment he didn't much care, it was a secondary concern to his physical discomfort and he trusted that Sam had things under control.

His mind started to drift, his slim grip on reality began to fray, and he didn't have the energy or the inclination to fight for focus. After a few jolting steps bouncing off his brother's torso, Sam's shoulder blade jammed uncomfortably in his gut, Dean was quite happy to succumb to the beckoning darkness.

-------

Dean slowly recovered his senses and listened to the growl of his car. He loved that sound, appreciated it on a level that no-one else could, because _he_ had tended to her, kept her running, treated her with tenderness and care that went beyond her being a mere possession.

His enjoyment was interrupted by his physical discomfort, he was seated awkwardly and he needed to do something about it. He slowly opened his eyes and was assailed by pain as the sunlight bombarded his vision. He closed his eyes and brought his hand up to act as a shield, opening his eyes again unhurriedly, letting the sunlight in gradually. But it wasn't just the sunlight causing him pain, his chest was aching, his throat felt like it contained razor blades and his head was pounding torture. He couldn't help a groan from escaping.

Sam looked over at his slouched brother with concern. "It's okay Dean, I'm trying to find a hospital."

Sam was all over the road, driving way too fast, watching his brother more than the traffic. And he had no idea where the hospital was, he'd been driving aimlessly for ten minutes hoping for a sign to show him the way. He was almost hoping a cop would pull him over so he could say _my brother's been hurt, where is the goddamn hospital?_

Dean tried to reposition himself in the seat, hoping to ease his pains, but his limbs were uncoordinated and heavy. It took a superhuman effort to raise himself slightly and the pain it sparked told him he was better off putting up with the position he was in.

He abandoned the quest to find comfort and glanced over at his brother trying to figure out how he had got here, trying to get his mind to kick into gear and catch up with the situation.

"Did I say you could drive?" Dean croaked. It was the first thing that came to him, _why is Sam driving?_ That wasn't the way it usually worked. But then he realized that Sam driving probably had something to do with him feeling like death warmed up.

The younger man gave a wry smile and replied, "You were unclear."

Sam was flooded with a relief so great he could have cried. Dean was awake and talking and a weight was lifted from his shoulders.

"How do you feel?"

"Like crap," was the irritable response. No point trying to put on a brave show, Dean couldn't hide how bad he was feeling. A cold sweat washed over him and he swallowed a few times to keep the nausea at bay. "Can you pull over?"

"Why?" Sam's eyes darted worriedly toward his brother.

Dean didn't want to admit that the motion of the car was making him feel sick, such an admission would be an insult to his baby, so he grumbled, "I just need a minute."

Sam pulled the car to the kerb and turned to face his brother. Dean was slumped low in the seat, his head resting against the passenger door, and a hand covered his eyes. He was pale and sweating but his breathing had returned to normal, for which Sam was grateful. Every laboured, choking breath his brother had taken had cut through Sam like a knife, imbued him with a frantic urgency to find help.

The younger brother lowered the driver side window to allow some fresh air through the vehicle.

"Are you going to throw up?" Sam asked, wondering if he needed to open the door for Dean.

"No," the older hunter lied, annoyed by his brother's concern and discontented at feeling so dreadful. He just wanted to be left alone for a moment while he sorted himself out.

Sam looked out the driver side window trying to ignore how terrible Dean looked. It was unnerving seeing his brother so unwell, struggling to regain his composure, the vulnerability was jarring when Dean was usually so vital and strong. But he was breathing, that was all that mattered, fifteen minutes ago he wasn't doing that and the young man gave his older brother a few uninterrupted minutes to pull himself together.

With the car now stopped and fresh air circulating, Dean felt a little better. He took in some deep breaths and swallowed a few times trying to return his body to some semblance of normality but he couldn't alleviate the jack hammering in his head no matter how hard he jammed his fingers into his temples looking for a pressure point.

Sam disturbed his brothers self healing by stating, "I really think you should go to a hospital. You don't know how close you came man."

Dean grunted in response. The attack in Evan's kitchen came back to him. He could feel himself pressed up against the kitchen cabinet, Casey's hand at his throat and he winced at how strong she had been, how powerless _he_ had been. He remembered being strangled into unconsciousness, then it all became a bit hazy. He took the hand away from his eyes to look over at his brother, searching his face for answers.

"Casey was choking me…," Dean began, then stopped as he tried to piece together in his mind what followed. "I couldn't break her grip...what happened next?"

The younger brother gulped at the memory of it. Dean laying lifeless on the floor, Sam frantically performing CPR, the agony of waiting for Dean to take a breath, not sure that he would, not sure if it was too late.

"When I came in, you were-" Sam couldn't bring himself to say the word _dead_, "-unconscious. I unloaded some rock salt into her and she disappeared."

"She disappeared?" Dean frowned. "What do you mean she disappeared? Why didn't you finish her?"

"Because she's a spirit and I wasn't really prepared," Sam defended himself. "And seriously dude, you weren't breathing, that was kind of my priority."

"She's a spirit?" Dean's mind reeled at the revelation. "No she's not." He knew the difference between a solid woman and a ghost, he'd had his hand around her wrist trying to loosen the grip from his throat.

"Yeah, she is. The rock salt shattered her and showed her true form."

Dean was having trouble forming his thoughts into coherent ideas, his body was rebelling against being put to a serious task when all it wanted to do was relax and recover. "But that-" Dean shook his head in confusion and immediately wished he hadn't as the nausea returned.

"-makes no sense?" Sam finished the sentence. "Tell me about it."

"Spirits are bound to a location. How can she be both at Evan's place and at The Hunter?"

"I know," Sam agreed. "And this single mindedness is weird as well. She's targeted you for death and she's going to follow you around until the deed is done. That's not normal for a spirit."

Dean tried to put the pieces together but he couldn't make them fit. _Great, I've been targeted by a superspirit _he thought. He wanted to make sense of what was going on in terms of the big picture but getting the wheels turning in his mind was painful. He'd have to think about it later.

Dean tried once again to reposition himself in the seat but any movement increased the pounding in his head to an unbearable level. He replaced his hand over his eyes, trying to filter the sun and decrease his headache. "Lets just go back to the motel."

"I really think you should get checked out," Sam urged.

"I'm fine," was the terse response and Dean knew he was overstating things, he wasn't feeling anywhere close to fine, but he didn't feel like he was about to kick off.

"Dean, you weren't breathing. If I hadn't-"

The older hunter quickly raised his hand to stop his brother continuing, "Yeah I know." He remembered Sam giving him mouth to mouth and the thought of it made his stomach churn. That was just gross. He was grateful to his brother for saving his life but he never wanted to speak of it again and he wished he could get the image out of his mind. "But I'm breathing now so let's just go back to the motel."

Reluctantly Sam started the car and headed for their current abode. He wanted his brother to be seen by a doctor but he knew it would involve awkward questions and, given the nature of Dean's injury, probably the police. Dean was under a criminal cloud at the moment, they needed to avoid authority figures as much as possible. The younger man was willing to give in on the hospital issue but he was going to keep a close eye on his brother and if he looked like having any sort of delayed reaction to the attack, Sam was calling an ambulance.

That had been a terrible scare for Sam, Dean's life in his hands, he never wanted to be in that position again. He was still feeling shaky from the fear. They needed to find out why Casey was stalking Dean and they needed to find out fast, Dean had been attacked twice in a 24 hour period, this woman wasn't fooling around.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

When they returned to the motel room, Dean didn't object to Sam's insistence that he lay down, which was an indication to Sam that his brother really wasn't feeling well. Usually there was a song and dance when Dean suffered an injury to the refrain of _I'm fine, just leave me alone. _The fact that Dean had dispensed with that routine put Sam on edge.

He fetched his brother some aspirin which Dean gratefully received but then had trouble swallowing past his swollen and constricted throat. He ended up chewing the tablets, which tasted disgusting but got the job done.

"I guess I'll take a little nap," Dean said with resignation, like Sam had worn him down with suggesting it.

Sam swallowed because he hadn't said anything about _sleeping_. He wasn't sure how to interpret Dean being sensible about his health, it was uncommon ground and it made his worry ratchet up another notch. He tried not to betray any emotion when he replied, "Yeah that's probably a good idea."

Dean slipped quickly into sleep. _Passed out?_ Sam thought. _No, no he's fine_. He pressed a hand to his sleeping brother's forehead and removed it with pursed lips when he felt that Dean was running a bit hot. Sam stood by his brother's bedside for a few minutes uncertain about what he should do, find a doctor who made housecalls or trust that Dean was okay. He knew Dean would be furious if Sam arranged for a doctor to come look at him, but that didn't mean he shouldn't do it.

Without really coming to a decision the young man moved to the nearby table and turned on his laptop. He started to research The Hunter, where all this seemed to lead back to, but he couldn't help getting up every few minutes and moving beside Dean, tilting his head close, listening for any change in his breathing. He got it into his head that while Dean slept his throat could swell and close, that his brother could quietly stop breathing and slip away. Sam didn't know if that was a real possibility or if his imagination was just tormenting him but it seemed like a valid concern and after a while it was all he could think about, he couldn't concentrate on the research while he was worried that his brother may not be out of the woods yet.

After checking on Dean for the half a dozenth time, Sam returned to his position in front of the computer and ran his eyes over the displayed page with forced attention, determined to have some answers for Dean when he woke up. But he couldn't take anything in. He re-read the same page three times without comprehension. With a sigh he rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder, knew that meaningful research was beyond him at the moment, so went and sat next to his brother on the bed, leaning against the wall behind with his arms folded across his chest, his eyes closed, completely focused on Dean's respiration. It was ridiculous how scared he was, his brother would have laughed at him if he knew, called him all sorts of candy ass names. But he needed to be right beside Dean, not across the room, not distracted by the computer, right beside him and alert for any indication that Dean was in distress.

As he listened to the air move in and out of his brother Sam's mind took advantage of his fear by playing cruel tricks on him. _Did he just miss a breath? Did his breathing just get shallower?_ _Did his breathing just get louder?_ After a while he couldn't figure out what was a normal breath and what wasn't.

_Just call a doctor _his subconscious yelled _both for your sake and his. _But it went against their upbringing to seek outside help. He cursed his father for imposing his subjective rules on them. What should have been a reasonable proposition, seeking medical help when someone wasn't well, was instead a tug of war between the competing interests of health and secrecy. Medical assistance was only to be sought as a last resort, when someone's life depended on it and Sam wasn't sure if that applied to this situation or not.

For over an hour Sam stayed in that repose. Every so often he put his hand on Dean's forehead to see if he was getting hotter and was thankful that the temperature seemed to be holding steady. He couldn't get that image of Dean on the floor not breathing out of his head. Every time he tried to convince himself that Dean was fine and he should get back to the research, a voice inside yelled _he was dead. Dead._ He couldn't seem to wrap his mind around the enormity of it and it kept him on the bed a little longer, making sure that Dean was okay, making sure he wasn't going to stop breathing again.

The younger Winchester probably would have stayed on the bed next to his brother for the duration of the sleep if Dean hadn't stirred and half woken.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked

"I'm thirsty," Dean mumbled without opening his eyes.

Sam went to the bathroom and filled a glass with water. When he returned to the bed Dean was lost in sleep again and Sam left the glass on the bedside table ready for the next time Dean felt thirsty.

The younger brother's fear was abating. He figured if Dean's throat was going to close it probably would have done so by now. He gave himself permission to sit at the computer and start researching although he still felt the need at intervals to check on his brother, put a hand to his forehead, listen to his breathing, make sure he was alright. But the debilitating fear that if he didn't sit right next to Dean he might die, had thankfully passed.

Dean woke an hour later when he felt a hand on his forehead. He weakly batted it away and croaked, "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Sam replied, annoyed at himself for waking his brother. As Dean slowly sat up Sam asked, "How do you feel?"

"Craptacular." Dean's voice was gritty and hoarse, it sounded like someone else's voice coming out of his mouth. He coughed to try and clear his throat but that made it sting painfully and kickstarted the pounding in his head. With a small groan he put one hand around his neck and the other to his head in a futile attempt to alleviate the internal aches.

"You okay?" Sam sat down on the bed next to his brother unsure about what he could do to help.

"I already told you I'm craptacular," Dean responded, deliberately evasive. He forced himself to take his hands away from his head and neck in the hope it would fool his brother into thinking the pain was gone, then fixed a frown on Sam, "Dude, personal space."

With a roll of his eyes Sam left his brother's side and went over to the laptop. They were back to the old game of _I'm fine, just leave me alone_ and it was a comfort to Sam because it meant Dean was feeling better.

"Man I could use a drink," Dean declared.

"On the table next to you."

_Water? _Dean complained inwardly when he saw the glass Sam was referring to. But he reached for it anyway and was appreciative of the way the cool liquid slid down his throat and soothed the fire that was playing inside. When he had drained the contents he placed the glass back on the table and said, "Okay now get me a proper drink."

"You think that's a good idea?" Sam asked, suspecting it was a stupid question, Dean seemed to find alcohol under any circumstances a good idea.

"Sam I was slightly dead a few hours ago, I think I earned a drink."

The younger brother couldn't really argue with that. It was on the tip of his tongue to say _Well you can get it _but he glanced at his brother and noticed the hand had returned to his head, he was obviously dealing with a killer headache and alcohol could actually help dull that pain. Sam got up and rifled through his brother's bag, pulling out a bottle of bourbon, then retrieved a couple of aspirin. _That'll give him a buzz._ He picked up the empty glass on the bedside table and was about to pour the alcoholic liquid into it when the croaky voice cried, "This isn't a gentleman's club, just give me the bottle."

Sam handed over the bottle and the aspirin. Dean took a deep drink, not sullying the first taste with the aspirin he was going to have to chew and sighed as the liquid coursed through his body, "Oh yeah, now I'm starting to feel human again." He took another swig and popped the aspirin into his mouth as an accompaniment.

"Do you want to hear what I found out about your spectral friend?" Sam asked, hoping to distract his brother from getting drunk. He needn't have worried, Dean set the bottle on the bedside table next to him, he knew this wasn't the time for getting drunk, no matter how appealing the thought of it might be.

"No friend of mine," the older hunter mumbled.

Sam continued, "Casey is a woman called Susan Benson. She 'killed herself-'" Sam did the bunny ears, "at The Hunter about a year ago, she was found hanging in one of the upstairs guest rooms."

"Okay," Dean said slowly. When his brother didn't continue Dean prompted, "And?"

"And what? I'm guessing she didn't actually kill herself or she wouldn't have come back as a vengeful spirit," Sam surmised. "She was murdered at The Hunter and now she's taking out her revenge on men who visit the bar."

Dean shot his brother a perplexed look. What the hell had Sam been doing for the last two hours? That was it? Some woman was killed at the bar and came back as a vengeful spirit? That didn't come close to tying all the pieces together. Why was Casey--(Susan? since when did spirits start using pseudonyms?)--only focusing her attention on him? Why wasn't she interested in wreaking general havoc? And how come she wasn't bound to a location?

"You're sure Casey and Susan are the same woman?"

"Definitely. I found a photo of Susan Benson and its Casey all right."

The older brother frowned. It just didn't sit right. He couldn't help feeling there was more going on than a simple vengeful spirit, but what it might be he didn't know. He shook himself, he was getting as paranoid as Sam, maybe it _was _just that simple.

"Evans had a photo of Casey on his computer," Sam added. "I think Kimberley and Casey are the same woman and I think Evans was dating slash hunting her."

Dean gave a short laugh. "That would make for some interesting pillow talk. Do you know where she's buried?"

"Yep. We salt and burn her and she'll be out of your hair."

"So are we doing it tonight?" Dean asked.

Sam gave his brother an uncertain look. He wanted the salt and burn done, he wanted this whole business over, but Dean still looked terrible and he was going to have to come too, no way Sam could leave him behind in the motel, who knew when Casey might visit him again.

"We could do it tomorrow night," Sam suggested, but the thought of another twenty four hours with Dean vulnerable to attack at any time was an intolerable proposition.

Dean obviously felt similarly because he replied, "Nah we should do it tonight."

"Yeah," Sam agreed and gave his brother a pitying look. He didn't ask his brother if he felt up to doing a salt and burn, even if Dean said yes, Sam could tell the answer was no. The way Dean was hanging his head, wincing every time he moved, deliberate in his breathing, spoke volumes about how he was feeling. He shouldn't have to go out to a cemetery to salt and burn a corpse when he'd come so close to dying only a few hours ago. It sucked that rest was a luxury in their life that was hard to come by.

-------

A few hours later, Dean piloted the Impala down the narrow road that cut through the darkened cemetery while Sam peered out the window trying to find where they needed to be. Sam hadn't wanted his brother to drive, when Dean had reached for the keys Sam had tilted his head in a way that signified _I don't think you're up to it_ but the warning look in Dean's eye had prevented Sam from actually voicing his objection. His older brother was getting pretty jack of the over-protectiveness and Sam needed to pick his battles.

"Stop," Sam instructed. "She's in this area somewhere."

Dean killed the engine and they exited the car heading for the trunk. Shovels, shotguns, flashlights, salt, accelerant, matches they divided it between them and then Sam led the way into the cemetery. He bounced his light around the gravestones looking for the one that belonged to Susan Benson and then noticed that Dean was moving in the opposite direction to him.

"Hey," the younger brother called, "can you stay close." There was a pleading edge to his tone that silently added _for me_

"Sam-" Dean started and then dropped his head with a sigh. It meant they were going to be covering the same ground, it meant it was going to take twice as long to find the gravestone than if they were looking independently. But he didn't feel like arguing about it so he changed his direction and joined his brother.

They continued their search, Sam a few steps in front of his brother throwing his torchlight left and right with business like precision. Dean didn't bother glancing at the headstones, there was no point if Sam was already doing it, he was just concentrating on keeping up. He felt tired, bodily tired, not like he needed to sleep, more like he needed to lay down, stop moving, rest his heavy limbs. The thumping in his head, that seemed to be immune to aspirin, marked time with his feet. His body was reminding him that he hadn't recovered from the afternoon's attack despite the few hours sleep he'd had and it was making walking around a chore. He grimaced at the thought that they were going to be out here for hours yet. But he didn't say anything to Sam about feeling less than 100 percent. Sam was already peering too closely at him, shaking his head at what he perceived, he didn't want to add fuel to that fire.

"Here it is," Sam pronounced, stopping in front of a plain looking headstone that Dean only gave a cursory glance. "I'll dig, you keep a lookout."

Dean didn't say anything. One of them was going to have to stand watch, why not him? But feeling unwell made him sensitive to any sort of insinuation that he was unwell. He took offence at Sam telling him what to do and to his brother assuming the more physical role. He thought about shoving Sam aside and digging, but what was the point? He wasn't up to the task and he knew it, he was just pissed off that Sam knew it too.

While Sam dug, Dean paced in a circle around his brother and the gravestone, keeping his eyes fixed in the distance for any intruders of the human or inhuman kind. When Susan Benson figured out they were about to torch her body, she was liable to get upset and lash out in anger.

After a half hour of pacing, Dean had to sit down. He noted the irony in Sam working his guts out making great progress in digging up the grave and Dean being the one on the verge of collapse. He rested on his haunches by the graveside and dropped his head onto his chest while he tried to gather the strength he needed to finish the job.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked immediately.

"I'm fine." Dean pushed himself back up to his feet and Sam quickly added, "Nah that's cool. Take a breather."

But Dean felt like a wimp being caught in the act of taking a break, especially when Sam was the one doing the hard work, and he forced himself to continue pacing. The hour wasn't late, in fact it was much earlier than they would usually do this sort of thing, certainly well before midnight. Sam had come up with some half assed reason why they had to go out this early but Dean knew it was for his benefit, Sam didn't think he had the stamina to do the job at the usual time. For that reason alone he needed to keep going, prove to his brother that he could handle this task, that he was made of sterner stuff than Sam gave him credit for.

After fifteen minutes more of pacing though, Dean was feeling dizzy. He was going to have to admit defeat and sit down for the rest of the watch. He sat on one of the gravestones and checked his brother's progress. The hole came up to Sam's chest, he had to be getting really close to hitting the coffin. _Come on, keep it together for fifteen more minutes_ he told himself. He stood up wearily and continued the pacing but suddenly his legs went rubbery and gave way beneath him causing him to tumble to the ground. He didn't pass out but he didn't try to get up, not straightaway, his body was sending the message _take a break or we'll take it for you_ and he had no choice but to comply with that demand. How did that saying go? The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak? That pretty much summed him up at the moment.

Dean lay on his back gazing up at the stars as he waited for his strength to return. _This would be the view from my grave _he thought, then frowned, that was a bit morbid. Still it was a nice view.

It was peaceful looking into the night sky, calming. The more Dean looked at it the more he felt enveloped by it as if he were becoming one with the universe. Was this what zen was all about? He laughed to himself, _you've been spending way too much time with Sam._

The hunter raised himself onto his elbows, intent on resuming his watchful role. He felt lethargic, his body was heavy and he couldn't seem to muster any energy. With a grimace he lowered himself back to the ground and brought a hand up to rub his eyes.

_Pull yourself together man. A woman had her hand around your throat, its not like you were shot. Now get up._

Sam hadn't noticed his brother collapse. The deeper the hole got, the closer he came to reaching the coffin, the more channeled was his focus on getting the job done. He urged his aching arms on, ignoring the dryness in his throat and the sweat pouring off his body. _Not much longer_ he told himself _not much longer and it will all be over_.

It was only when he felt a pricking at the back of his brain, a nagging reminder _where's Dean? _that Sam straightened in the hole and looked around for his brother. He sucked in his breath when he saw Dean laying on the ground and Casey standing beside him. _Shit, not again! _He dropped the shovel and reached for his gun at the grave's edge, turning and shooting in one fluid movement. Casey disappeared, not waiting to receive the second barrel and Sam jumped out of the hole and raced to his brother.

Dean hadn't been aware of Casey at his side, with his hands over his eyes he'd lapsed into almost a semi-consciousness, his attention had been focussed inwards, on gathering his strength and pulling himself together, he'd lost his grip on what was happening around him, been completely oblivous when Casey had appeared. The loud report of the shotgun scared the crap out of him. He jolted upright and looked around wildly, suddenly remembering where he was and what he was supposed to be doing.

Sam let out the breath he was holding when Dean sat up immediately. Thank Christ there wasn't going to be a repeat of this afternoon.

"Your friend's here," Sam stated, scouring the area for any sign of Casey/Susan. The question _why is she picking on Dean when I'm the one about to torch her corpse?_ flicked vaguely through his mind but he didn't dwell on it, it was just another in a long line of inconsistencies on this job. Satisfied that the spirit was gone for the moment he knelt beside his brother. Dean was slightly unfocussed, a little vague, like he didn't know where he was, but he seemed to shake it off quickly and reached for his gun.

"You alright?" Sam asked. Dean wasn't showing any signs of having just been strangled, but he was moving slowly and carefully and the younger brother wasn't sure if it was something he should be worried about.

"How many times do you reckon you've asked me that today?" Dean replied irritably. The older man couldn't meet his brother's eyes, he was mortified that he had been laying down on the job and that Sam had saved him _again_.

Sam noticed the averted gaze, it was always a giveaway when something was troubling Dean. "What's wrong?" he queried.

"Nothing," Dean snapped, "What's wrong with you?" He hated that his self loathing was making him turn on his brother but he didn't feel deserving of attention right now and he wanted to avoid any discussion about why he had been lying down and how come he hadn't blasted Casey. He just wanted Sam away from him. "Go finish the job."

Dean stalked off and returned to the pacing before Sam could respond. The younger brother regarded the older with suspicious confusion, something was bothering Dean, something had just happened, Sam would have to be an idiot not to see the red lights flashing but the set of Dean's jaw, his rigid posture told Sam that getting to the bottom of it would probably be an exasperating process, Dean was shut down hard. With a small shrug of his shoulders, a gesture to himself that he'd be better off leaving it alone, Sam jumped back into the grave. He had just hit wood when Casey appeared and now he started savagely smashing the shovel into the coffin, exposing the corpse within. When the whole body was in view the young man grabbed the nearby container of salt and poured it over the body.

Dean prowled the perimeter mentally upbraiding himself for his failure, for being caught wrong-footed. There was no excuse for his dereliction of duty, the fact he wasn't feeling great afforded no defence because he had agreed with Sam that they should do this tonight and the incompetence he had exhibited was dangerous, it was amateur and he was better than that.

Satisfied with the amount of salt scattered over the corpse, Sam climbed out of the grave and grabbed the accelerant. He poured the liquid over the area he had just covered with salt and struck a match. The delicate flame flickered in his hand for a moment before Sam threw it into the grave, causing a bonfire that had him moving backward away from the intense heat.

Dean came over to join him.

"That was pretty easy," Sam commented. _Too easy _said a voice inside, but he didn't want to follow that line of thinking.

"Yeah," Dean agreed distractedly, still smarting about his inattentiveness.

"And I for one am thrilled," Sam proclaimed, trying to lighten the mood. "About time something went our way."

The young man picked up his shovel and began returning the displaced earth to the grave. Dean grabbed the other shovel to help, the physicality of the chore serving to atone for his earlier weakness. He was aware of Sam casting him searching looks, checking if he was alright and he flashed his brother a forced grin, deflecting. "You're going to lose a foot if you don't watch what you're doing."

Sam gave a short laugh.

"And then I'd have to call you Hopalong," Dean continued, "Hoppy for short. Or maybe Ho. _Come ere Ho_. Yeah I'd probably go with Ho, it works on a number of levels."

"Shut up."

When the soil replacement was complete Sam remarked, "I'm glad that's over."

"Yeah."

"I think you should spend the day in bed tomorrow." The younger brother waited to see what sort of response that would get.

Dean snorted. "You're getting a bit alpha on me there Sammy."

"Damn straight."

Dean cuffed him on the back of the head and when Sam turned around to return the favour Dean teased, "Oh what, you're going to hit a guy who was dead today?"

Sam's eyebrows furrowed and he expelled a disbelieving breath. How could Dean joke about that? He still looked like shit and he was joking about his close call like it was nothing. Sam couldn't understand his brother some times, couldn't understand the way his mind worked. Didn't he know that this had been one of the worst days of Sam's life? Without responding the younger brother turned toward the car and started walking, his shoulders drawn tight.

Dean cursed under his breath. He hadn't been _trying_ to push Sam's buttons, he hadn't meant to upset him and he wasn't sure why what had occurred this afternoon was now a taboo subject. He hastened to catch up with Sam.

The younger Winchester was tossing the supplies into the trunk of the car and as Dean did the same he gave his younger brother a sidelong glance. "You want to drive?" he asked as Sam straightened. It was an apology without having to say the words and Sam understood it as much.

"Dean,-" Sam gave a heavy sigh. _Don't go there_ he thought. Don't start the conversation about Dean's need to minimize his health and wellbeing because it is a huge pit that could swallow them both in blame and accusation, guilt and recrimination. Just take the olive branch.

Sam forced a smile onto his face. "Toss me the keys."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Sam lay in bed unable to get to sleep. It had been such a rollercoaster day, going from the ultimate low of Dean nearly dying to the great relief of dispensing with the spirit and finishing this job. It left him with a residual nervous energy that had his toes tapping against the sheets, he couldn't switch off.

Dean was out like a light as soon as they'd arrived at the motel and again Sam had felt that worry creep inside him that maybe his brother wasn't okay. _Settle down _he told himself _it was a close call but Dean's fine. _The young hunter really wasn't enjoying this in your face fear that he was currently experiencing, he always felt a latent concern for Dean because his brother was aggressive in the way he approached things, an offensive rather defensive player but since the attack this afternoon he found himself scanning his brother's face for hidden signs that he was hiding health issues, paying close attention to the way he moved and the things he said for clues that Dean was about to come crashing down. And he found those clues and signs, it was natural that his brother would have some hangover from nearly being killed a few hours ago, and it only served to perpetuate his fear. Conversely, he knew that the closer he looked, the more Dean would try to hide and it made him wonder if the things he could perceive were the tip of some terrible iceberg.

God he had to get over this. This suffocating worry was going to drive Sam insane. It was over. There had been a danger and now it was gone. Dean had been injured and now he was fine, well on his way to fine anyway.

In the dark Sam listened to his brother's deep regular breathing and used that to chase away the persistent anxiety. _See? Breathing, fine, go to sleep._ But it wasn't that easy, fear was a pervasive thing and once it had a hold it was hard to shake off.

In the next bed Dean stirred, Sam could hear him shifting and then he was muttering something. The younger brother raised his head off the pillow listening for what the muttering was about.

"No, no, no, no," Dean moaned quietly.

Sam was on his feet in an instant and crossed to his brother's side. He was surprised to find Dean awake, his hands clutching his head. He didn't look well and worry squeezed at Sam's heart. "What is it?"

"The crying. I can't take that crying anymore."

Sam was stunned. The banshee? Why was she visiting Dean tonight? They had dispensed with Casey/ Susan, the danger had passed. He sat down heavily on the floor next to his brother's bed. He thought it was over, he thought Dean was safe, but there was something else and they were back to square one.

Sam pressed Dean's shoulder hoping it felt comforting and said, "It'll pass. Just let it pass."

Dean was exhausted. He needed to sleep. He wasn't like his brother who made lack of sleep look easy, he suffered if he didn't receive his full quota and this was the third night that he'd been robbed of his entitlement. If he'd been feeling a bit stronger he would have reacted to another night of interrupted sleep with anger, grabbed his gun and stormed out looking for the woman, even knowing he probably wouldn't find her at least it was doing something. But at the moment he wasn't sure he could get out of bed, he felt physically incapable. He'd pushed himself too hard at the cemetery, stubbornly refused to acknowledge the warnings his body had given that he was overtaxed, and that wouldn't have been a problem if he'd had the rest of the night to recover and regain his strength, by morning he would have been fine, but it wasn't even two hours since they had returned from the cemetery, he wasn't close to rejuvenated.

Dean considered whether to remain in bed and be tortured by the crying for the next ten minutes or force himself up and let the act of doing something lessen the impact of the noise. He really wanted to stay in bed, rest a while longer and it depressed him because he knew that was the wrong answer, he should want to take action. On some level he understood that it was unreasonable for him to expect to bounce back from nearly being killed earlier, but he couldn't get away from the mindset that physical incapacity equated to weakness and failure. And he'd already been a failure tonight when he'd lain down on the job. If he was actually carrying an injury, if he had suffered a broken bone or a deep gash he could have said to himself _there's your problem, that's why you can't get out of bed,_ but there was nothing like that to hold onto. All he was feeling were the after effects of an attack that had occurred nearly twelve hours ago and his subconscious was yelling _Get up wimp._

Sam's hand on his shoulder sealed it, it felt like pity and he couldn't accept that, he had to get up. Dean pushed off his brother's hand and rolled his legs over the edge of bed.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked, his voice laced with suspicion.

"Getting up."

"Why?"

"I'm going to find that bitch," Dean resolved and started to rise.

Sam put his hand on his brother's chest and pushed him back into a sitting position. "Dean. It's a wasted effort, you won't find her. Just lay down and I'll turn the tv on loud."

"That won't help. Get off me Sam." Dean pushed Sam's hand off his chest but it was quickly replaced. The older hunter looked at his brother with a frown. A_re you challenging me?_ "Get off."

"I'll go," Sam offered and immediately regretted the condescending words.

"You can't even hear her," Dean replied indignantly and shoved his brother away.

But the younger brother was determined that Dean not go on this wild goose chase. It became Sam's quest to prevent Dean leaving. His older brother had endured a traumatic day, he was tired, he wasn't well, he was being warned of his death and it just made sense to Sam that he stay in bed and wait until morning when they could delve into what was going on and figure out where to go from here.

Sam stood up and put both hands on Dean's shoulders to hold him down.

"Are you kidding me?" Dean exclaimed as he forcefully broke the hold but Sam then caught his brother in a body tackle that pushed him backward onto the bed where they wrestled.

"Jesus Christ," Dean yelled as his brother's weight pinned him to the bed. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I don't want you to go outside." It sounded lame, Sam couldn't really explain it, he knew it wasn't entirely rational but he was prepared to hold his brother down to prevent him leaving the room, he'd drawn a line in the sand that he didn't want his brother to cross.

"Would you get off me."

Dean struggled against the lanky lump on top of him then took some gasping breaths and cried, "I can't breathe." He had calculated that would have an effect on Sam, it was low to use his near death experience against his younger brother, play on Sam's fear but his strength was down and he needed to find an advantage outside the physical. Sure enough the pressure on him eased as the younger man raised himself slightly and Dean took advantage of the space to jab a blow into his brother's stomach. The younger brother doubled over with a groan, allowing the older to roll away and find his feet.

"I swear to God Sam, if you ever do that again-" Dean was fuming, speaking in the low tone of someone who was about to explode and Sam couldn't say anything. _I've gone too far_ the younger man thought, in trying to keep his brother close he had pushed him away. He knew at the first word he would send Dean over the edge and he wasn't sure what his older brother might do, Dean looked furious.

The older hunter pulled on his jeans then grabbed a jacket and his car keys all the while glaring at his brother, daring him to say something.

As Dean strode toward the door Sam said quietly, "Don't. Please."

The anguish in that plea wasn't enough to halt Dean, everything about Sam was oppressive and suffocating. He noticed that the wailing had stopped, but that was no longer Dean's reason for leaving the motel room, he had to get away from his brother and he strode out without a backward glance.

-------

Loud music blared through the car speakers as Dean tore through the deserted streets. The hunter hadn't a destination in mind when he stormed out of the motel, his only thought was to put some distance between himself and his brother and after a half hour of directionless driving listening to his favourite tunes he still wasn't feeling soothed, still wasn't ready to deal with Sam.

A sawn off shotgun lay on his lap and another was beside him on the seat. He had stopped the car a few miles from the motel and retrieved them from the trunk mindful of the banshee's warning, then had continued on the aimless drive. He was vaguely aware that being out by himself in the middle of the night when he just been warned that death was still stalking him was reckless but Sam had pushed him to this.

Dean pulled the car onto the soft shoulder of the highway and turned off the engine. There was no point driving any more, it wasn't doing the job he had hoped, he was just burning gas. He slid down in the seat so that his head rested on the upholstery and he was looking out at the night sky through the windscreen, using it as a background for his thoughts.

Sam was going to have to get a grip. Dean wasn't sure he could stay with him if he was going to get hysterical about every little thing, they were going to have to get separate rooms or something just so Dean could get a break from the hovering presence. His younger brother trying to forcibly prevent him going outside was over the top and well into the realm of insulting. He wanted to be understanding, he wanted to be sensitive to whatever it was that Sam was going through, and he knew it had something to do with his loss issues, some unresolved feelings about Jessica's death, but he wasn't sympathetic to displays like that.

It was all the banshee's fault, why couldn't she just shut up? She was freaking Sam out. And truth be told she was freaking him out a bit as well. A person shouldn't know if they'd been marked for death, there was no benefit to receiving that warning, not if it didn't come with instructions on how to avoid said death. It made Dean feel powerless, like nothing he did would have any bearing on the outcome that had been predicted. How could he know which actions were hastening him toward his death and which were confounding it? Whatever he did or didn't do was inexorably leading him to the same conclusion.

Perhaps that was why he bucked so hard against Sam's efforts to protect him, because he couldn't stand to give up whatever little power may still be his, didn't want his brother making decisions for him, telling him how to react. If death was imminent, then he didn't want these last few days to be spent huddled in fear, taking useless precautions, letting his brother make all the decisions. There was no honour in that, no dignity in dying that way. If he was on the way out then he wanted to go down with defiance on his face, a _come and get me_ attitude and all guns blazing.

The phone in Dean's pocket rang. The third time it had rung since he'd left the motel. He didn't answer. He knew who it was and he knew what Sam was going to say, _I'm sorry, please come back,_ and there would be that edge to his voice, the barely contained emotion that Dean was a sucker for, that always made him feel guilty as hell even when he didn't think he was in the wrong. Not yet. He wasn't ready to come back yet. There were things he needed to think about first.

Dean drew his hand across his eyes. What a mess. His death around the corner, at loggerheads with Sam, not really sure what the hell was going on. Against the backdrop of not knowing where their father was right now or if he was okay, still looking for Jessica's killer, still looking for answers about why their lives were so screwed up. Christ it was exhausting. There were times when he felt on top of things, like he knew what he was doing, and then times like now, when it was all just balls up in the air waiting to come crashing down.

Some sleep would help. Another reason that he despised the banshee. _Warn me during the day, stop interfering with my downtime._

With his hand still over his eyes Dean felt the presence before he saw it. It didn't surprise him. He figured that the subject of the banshee's warning hadn't changed, that burning Susan Benson's body hadn't removed the danger. Casey did it deliberately, he surmised, waited until he was alone and distracted, then made her move on him. She was very good at it, she picked her moments well. He jerked his hand away from his eyes while the hand in his lap tightened around the shotgun laying there and he raised himself in the seat so that his back was against the driver side door.

Casey was sitting in the passenger seat regarding him with a slight smile. There was something different about her. Dean's brows furrowed slightly as he tried to pinpoint what it was. She wasn't looking quite so human, she seemed indistinct around the edges and Dean suspected she was no longer solid, he almost reached out to touch her and check.

The spirit sat unmoving and Dean registered an initial confusion that she hadn't attacked him yet. Then he realized that this was the first time he'd had a gun in his hand when she'd appeared and she was wary. The hunter could have blasted her immediately but he waited, wondering if he could get some information from her, some clue as to why she wanted him dead.

"What do you want?" he asked, and then gave a short laugh because she'd already made it pretty clear what she wanted.

"I need to finish this," she replied. "Just let me finish it."

"You're not finishing anything," he retorted with weary annoyance. "What the hell is this all about?"

"Its only fair, you killed me and now I should kill you."

Dean blinked. He hadn't killed her had he? Nah, he hadn't killed her. "You got the wrong guy lady."

"Its only fair," she repeated, ignoring his words.

"You really want to talk about fair with me? Because I've got a whole catalogue of things I could trump you with."

"I'm entitled to justice."

"I didn't-" Dean began and saw that he wasn't going to get far protesting his innocence, he was arguing with a spirit, they weren't the most logical of creatures. He changed tack. "Tell me how I killed you?"

"You hit me with your car."

"What the hell?" Where did that come from? "Weren't you strangled?" he queried and Casey shimmered in a way that reminded Dean of the robot from Lost in Space saying _that does not compute_.

"No, you hit me with your car," Casey repeated.

"Aren't you Susan Benson?" What a bizarre conversation. Dean was trying to sort out a spiritual mistaken identity.

Casey frowned. "You know who I am, you hit me with your car."

"I didn't hit you with my car would you stop saying that." The phone in Dean's pocket rang. _Excellent timing Sammy._ Dean slowly reached into his pocket without shifting his focus from Casey and pulled out the phone. "Sam?"

"Dean could you please-"

"Shut up Sam," the older brother snapped. "I'm entertaining." There was an audible intake of breath down the line. "And you really screwed up this time."

"What did I do?" Sam whined and it almost made Dean laugh because whining was so inappropriate right now.

"Casey, Susan, whatever the hell her name is-" then on a whim he asked the spirit, "what's your name?"

"Casey. You know my name because you _hit me with your car,"_ they both finished the sentence.

Returning to the phone Dean said, "Casey is claiming I hit her with my car."

There was silence from Sam. "Did you?" he eventually asked.

"What the-. Are you seriously asking?" Dean was flabbergasted. Did Sam really think he had hit some woman with his car and kept it to himself? He couldn't keep the hurt from his voice. "You know I didn't."

"No, I'm just- Why would she say that?"

"Because she's a-" _psycho_ Dean was about to say, but Casey suddenly swiped his gun to the side and hit him across the face, causing him to crack his head hard against the steering wheel. _That was new, she's expanded her repertoire. _He couldn't afford to lose consciousness, Sam didn't have his back this time. The phone dropped from Dean's hand but the fingers of his other hand had been curled around the shotgun trigger and that grip prevented the gun from falling out of his grasp. The blow to the head momentarily stunned the hunter but Casey's delicate grip sliding around his throat brought him to his senses, he lifted the gun and blasted the spirit into nothingness.

_Shit I'm sick of being strangled _he thought. _Really sick of it._

Dean took a few deep breaths then checked himself in the rearview, there was a red welt on his forehead which was probably going to turn into a bruise but no blood, thank God, so Sam wouldn't pounce on him as he walked through the door. _Sam_. Dean was reminded that he had been talking on the phone to his brother when Casey attacked and it occurred to him that Sam may have heard what just happened through the phone. Man that would be awful, the stuff of nightmares, listening to someone being attacked and not being able to do anything about it. He fumbled around for the phone which had fallen onto the floor and noted when he picked it up that the call to Sam was still in progress. _Shit._

"She's gone," Dean advised, then added, "I'm okay," and winced at how inadequate that sounded.

"Come back," Sam implored, a slight hitch in his voice like he was only barely holding it together, the neediness making him sound so young, and it was Dean who thought _I've gone too far, I shouldn't have left. _They were torturing each other.

"Yeah, okay."

-------

A half hour later Dean pulled the Impala to a stop before the motel room, bleary eyed and barely able to form a coherent thought. His greatest wish was that he could go inside, bypass any conversation and lay down to sleep but he doubted Sam would allow him that. He could probably force the issue if he wanted, fix his brother with a scowl, address Sam with a hard tone, wave him away with a dismissive gesture, but it wasn't fair to Sam to do that. Dean smiled wryly as he thought of Casey's words. _It's only fair._ Everyone's looking for fairness.

The hunter tiredly pulled himself out of the car and made his way to the room. As he pushed open the door he saw Sam standing next to the small table housing the laptop, with a face like thunder.

"We torched the wrong body," Dean said, hoping to divert whatever vitriol Sam was about lay on him.

"You-" Sam was choking on his words and took a step toward his brother causing Dean to take a step back, not sure if he was about to be punched. "You selfish bastard."

_Hey you did this_ Dean thought _you made me leave_ but he didn't say it, he didn't want to prolong the conversation, didn't want to throw fuel on the fire, he just wanted Sam to say his piece so he could crawl into bed.

"I'm not saving you anymore," Sam raged. "If you don't want to be saved then fine, I'm not doing it."

Dean took that with a grain of salt, if he was being attacked he didn't expect Sam could turn away, but he didn't say anything. He walked over to sit on the edge of the bed and started taking off his boots. _Macho bullshit…obnoxious... insufferable…arrogant…reckless…_ Dean didn't bite at any of it, he let the storm roll over him and waited for it to pass.

"You don't even care about _me_, do you?" and that had Dean's head up with a snap. He could take most criticisms levelled by his brother, let it slide like water off a duck's back, but not that, that one cut. The things he had done for Sam growing up, the sacrifices he had made, the struggles he had endured. Who didn't care? Who took the other for granted? It wasn't Dean.

"You need to stop," Dean said in a too quiet voice, "before you say something you can't take back." Sam folded his arms and pouted, but he stopped the tirade and Dean couldn't tell if Sam was pleased that he had wounded his older brother or if he was sorry. He was probably sorry, Sam wasn't the malicious sort.

"We torched the wrong body tonight," Dean reverted to the safe topic of the job. "We need to find out who Casey is and deal with her." His boots now on the floor he shrugged off his jacket and climbed into bed.

"We didn't torch the wrong body," Sam said petulantly, "I'm telling you Casey is Susan Benson."

"Well the evidence says otherwise." Dean closed his eyes and he could feel that sleep was going to hit him fast. "We'll talk about it in the morning."

Sam watched his brother fall asleep. Dean was pale, he had dark circles under his eyes, he looked sick, he looked wrecked and it made Sam so angry he wanted to put his fist through a wall. Christ his brother was hard work, he never took the easy option and Sam wasn't sure how much longer he could live with it, it was agonizing to watch, to be a part of but have no influence over. He sat down heavily on the bed and put his head in his hands. He wanted to walk away and leave Dean to his death wish but he knew that wouldn't solve anything, it would just add a layer of guilt to the turmoil he was already suffering.

_Just finish the job_ he told himself. Put personal issues aside and just finish the damn job.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

Chapter 7 

Dean closed his eyes tight against the daylight streaming in through the window and onto his face. He brought an arm up to act as a shield but it was too late, he was awake. As he stretched and rubbed away the tiredness he scanned the room for his brother and noticed with surprise that Sam was asleep in the next bed. It was well after sunrise, his younger brother was usually up and at 'em by now, but then Dean didn't know when Sam had gone to bed, it may only have been half an hour ago for all he knew.

The hunter left his brother sleeping and got up to take a shower. Dean frowned at his appearance in the mirror, he wasn't looking so pretty today. A bit pale, a bit dark under the eyes, a bit grizzled and craggy, collectively it made him look haggard and old before his time. The dark bruises on his forehead and throat added to the roughness. The job was taking a toll, robbing him of one of his best attributes.

Thankfully he wasn't feeling nearly as bad as he looked, in fact he was feeling alright. Sure his throat still hurt and he had the last vestiges of a headache, he was rundown and had a few twinges here and there, but other than that, no real complaints. He smiled to himself, yeah aside from aching all over, no real complaints.

He made a face at the reflection in the mirror and asked "So where do you go from here genius? Seriously, do you have a clue?"

It was hard enough hunting down the supernatural but when they started hunting back things were getting out of hand. He could feel desperation whispering to him, urging him to find a solution and get his life back in order, re-take control.

He morphed into De Niro, gave his reflection a hard stare and uttered softly, "Are you talking to me? Are you talking to me?" then grinned and shook his head.

When he emerged from the bathroom fresh and clean, Sam was awake, flicking through channels. "Hey," Dean greeted him. "I want to get something to eat, can I get a pass out?"

"Very funny," Sam responded. "No, you can't. I'll come with you. Just let me take a quick shower."

"Nah, I'm going now. If you want to come you'll have to come dirty."

Sam's eyes narrowed, "You have to go right now? You can't wait five minutes?"

"I have to go right now," Dean replied steadily. "I couldn't possibly wait five minutes."

They regarded each other adversarily, Dean with a slight smile on his face, aware he was being unreasonable. Sam knew what his brother was doing, it was a knee-jerk reaction to trying to forcibly restrain him last night. _I'll do what I want when I want,_ Dean was saying, and Sam had no doubt that if he went and took a shower his brother would be out the door without him.

"Can we talk about this," Sam said wearily. "Can we talk about what happened last night?"

"There's nothing to talk about Sam," Dean replied dismissively and he picked up the car keys to give his brother the hurry along.

So here they were again. Dean had been warned of his death and he was determined to go about his day like nothing was wrong. No point arguing about it, Sam had already made his feelings clear on the subject, they'd just be going over old ground. There wasn't going to be any discussion about whether leaving the motel was wise, or any plan devised to minimise the risk, it was full steam ahead and Sam had to like it or lump it.

_I'm not saving you anymore _Sam had shouted last night. Who did he think he was he kidding? As if he was going to let Dean face the danger alone.

With a pointed look at his brother, Sam got out of bed and put on some fresh clothes then strode to the car uttering "jerk," just loud enough for Dean to hear. There was a smirk on the older man's face as he followed Sam out the door.

Soon they were sitting at a table in the café they had eaten at for the last two days. Sam wasn't feeling the same edginess he'd experienced yesterday, didn't feel the need to be on the alert for the unexpected. They knew what the banshee was warning Dean about, they knew who to be on the lookout for and they also knew that Casey had a tendency to attack when Dean was alone, so as long as they were in company Sam figured Dean was relatively safe.

The young man fiddled absently with the laptop open in front of him. He'd sat at the computer for hours after Dean had fallen asleep searching for clues about the identity of Casey and he was keen to report to his brother what he had discovered, but he waited for Dean to start the conversation. After last night's debacle, where trying to force his opinion onto Dean has backfired spectacularly, Sam was trying to play it cool, back off a bit and let his brother take the lead. His eyes kept drifting to the bruising around Dean's throat. He didn't mean to fixate but it was like a beacon demanding attention, his eyes just couldn't help but wander toward the unusualness. There was a pattern to the markings and Sam found himself trying to mentally place his fingers around Dean's throat to match the spirit's grip.

"What did you find out about Casey?" Dean asked and startled Sam out of his reverie.

The younger brother quickly dropped his gaze and focused on the laptop. "I found out that a woman named Casey Adams was killed outside The Hunter, hit by a car."

Dean's eyebrows raised. "Huh, interesting. What type of car?"

Sam clicked his tongue in annoyance. So much he knew about Casey Adams, her date of birth, where she was born, where she grew up, the names of her parents and siblings, where she went to school, when she had graduated and where she last worked, but the one thing he didn't know was the type of car that hit her.

"Black Chevy Impala," Sam replied with a straight face.

Dean's eyes widened for a moment then narrowed at his brother, "Don't bullshit me."

Sam gave a short laugh. "I don't know what type of car, it was a hit and run, the driver was never found."

"Do you have a photo of her?"

"Yeah, and its not the woman who's after you." Sam typed in a web address and when the photo of Casey Adams came up he twisted the computer around for his brother to see.

"Yikes," Dean commented, at the very plain faced woman looking at him from the screen. "No wonder she's an angry spirit."

"Could you show a little respect for the dead," Sam complained.

Dean grinned wickedly, "Just calling it as I see it Sammy and that is one ugly chick, I wouldn't be touching her."

"Yeah, alright, no-one's asking you to." Sam felt uncomfortable about disparaging someone who'd met an untimely end.

"When did she die?" Dean was serious again.

"Two years ago. Not quite two years."

"Hmm," Dean grunted, taking it in, filing it away, labeling it as a puzzle piece that could be relevant to the job. "Have you got a photo of Susan Benson?"

Sam tapped on the computer then turned it around once again so that his brother could view the photo.

"Hmm," Dean grunted again. "That's Casey alright."

"That's what I told you," Sam said emphatically, insulted that his brother felt the need to check his research.

Dean pushed the computer back toward his brother deep in thought. "So two women died at or near The Hunter, different modes of death, and there's a spirit who looks like Susan but calls herself Casey." He pushed out his breath through his teeth. "How does that fit together?"

"You got me," Sam commented distractedly, "but there's more. I also researched the name Kimberley to see if there was any connection to The Hunter and there was a woman named Kimberley James who was stabbed to death about five years ago in the alley beside the hotel."

"Jesus," Dean uttered in bewilderment. "So David Evans was going out with a woman who looked like Susan but called herself Kimberley and wouldn't you know, a woman named Kimberley was killed at The Hunter. What the hell man?"

Sam shrugged.

The older brother continued, musing out loud, "But both Casey and Kimberley are using Susan's mode of death when they attack their victims, Kimberley strangled Evans, we're assuming, and Casey is trying very hard to strangle me. So the spirit looks like Susan, calls herself Casey or Kimberley and uses Susan's mode of death to attack." Dean shook his head slowly, "It's a spirit with multiple personalities." He took a swig of his coffee and as the cup came down, his eyes lit up like he'd won the jackpot and he fixed a stare on Sam, waiting for him to get it, to put the pieces together.

"What?" Sam asked, unhappy that he was half a step behind his brother's thoughts.

"It's a spirit with multiple personalities."

"Yeah you said that." Sam couldn't quite grasp the leap Dean had made from _it's a spirit with multiple personalities _to _that explains everything_.

"The spirits are sharing a form. I'll bet Casey and Kimberley are lesser spirits that have been hanging around The Hunter since their deaths unable to work themselves into a physical form and then Susan Benson comes along and she's powerful, she's got righteous indignation coming out the wazoo because not only has she been murdered, and that'll piss off anyone, but she's been labeled a flake who killed herself-." Dean's hands spread to the side in a flourish, _ta da, there's your answer._

"Well I don't know that she's been labeled a flake," Sam interjected, "but yeah, I'm with you on the rest of it."

Dean's mouth snapped shut and his head tilted in annoyance. "Do you have to do that?"

Sam looked down at himself to see what he was doing to aggravate his brother. "What?"

"Do you have to correct me with your semantics."

Sam raised an eyebrow and his mouth quirked at the corner, "Semantics you say?"

"I believe that's what I said." Dean had a dangerous look in his eye, daring Sam to ask him if he knew what the word meant. _Go on Sam, ask me._ "You want to make an issue of it?"

There was silence for a beat before Sam said, "Anyway, so you've got Casey and Kimberley as lesser spirits," he picked up the thread of the conversation in a jocular voice, "then Susan Benson comes along and she has some power, she has a form. So how do they all fit together?"

"They're piggybacking onto Susan Benson's form so they can get their revenge," Dean said with a slight smile, satisfied that his brother had backed away from the challenge.

Sam frowned as he worked the information through in his mind. "So we're not dealing with one spirit, we're dealing with three. And they're working quasi-independently but using the same form." He ran his fingers through his hair and exclaimed under his breath, "Christ," then peered at his brother and asked, "Have you ever dealt with anything like this before?"

The older hunter shook his head tautly.

"So how do we deal with it? Burn all the corpses? But we already burned Susan Benson's corpse and Casey still visited you last night so it didn't change anything."

"It did actually, I don't think the spirit is solid anymore. I think burning Susan's corpse weakened the form."

"So I guess that's the answer then, we burn all the corpses."

"Maybe," Dean said absently.

"What maybe?" Sam looked intently at his brother and could almost see Dean's wheels turning. "What are you thinking?"

"No, its just that you're right. Burning Susan Benson's body should have been the end of the matter. There's more going on, the spirits are sustaining each other."

"Okay," Sam acknowledged, sounded reasonable.

"And we don't even know how many spirits are involved. Three so far, but given the number of people who have met an untimely end at the Hunter there could be many more riding this bandwagon."

The conversation was interrupted by their breakfast being placed before them. Dean had bucked the usual trend of ordering a full breakfast because his throat still felt like it had hard edges and with a tinge of embarrassment ordered scrambled eggs. He could have sworn the waitress looked at him sideways (_what, no meat?) _The sight of _only_ fluffy eggs on the plate made him grimace, this was the food of a geriatric.

Sam noticed his brother's scowl and commented, "Nice mush Granddad. You going to eat with teeth in or out?"

Surprise flashed in Dean's eyes, quickly replaced by irritation, he was not pleased at being an open book. "Someone with such girlish tendencies shouldn't be saying too much about others," Dean mumbled.

A smile tugged at Sam's mouth. "I was just commenting on the food. Can you eat and talk pops or do you want me to wait until you're finished?"

"You like living dangerously?" Dean casually threatened. "You enjoy the occasional fist to the face?"

The smile on Sam's face broadened despite his efforts to reign it in. This was so tantalizing, Dean was feeling old and every barb to that effect was going to produce a result. It was an open invitation to annoy the crap out of his brother.

"One more word and I'm leaving you here," the older brother warned.

Sam's face fell at the idea of Dean storming out, of him wandering around solo with a death omen hanging over him like the sword of Damocles, a target just waiting to be hit.

It was Dean's turn to smile. _Yeah, you know I would_ he silently gloated, _I got your number too buddy._ Nipped that source of amusement in the bud.

The younger man picked half heartedly at the breakfast while his thoughts returned to the matter at hand. "So why does Casey want _you_ dead?"

"I don't know man." Dean's egg laden fork paused half way to his mouth. He was still unsure about that component, he hadn't quite worked it _all_ out. "She's confused. Maybe there was something about me that reminded her of the killer. I don't think it really matters, she's chosen me and she can't be talked out of it."

"So what are we going to do about the spiritual collective? Got any ideas?"

The older man nodded through a mouthful of breakfast, then leaned into the table wearing an expression of such enthusiasm that it made Sam think _God he really gets a kick out of this job_.

"Well I've been thinking, they're all looking for justice right?" Even though the question was rhetorical Dean waited for a response.

"Yeah, I guess."

"You guess? What are you unsure?" the older brother questioned impatiently. _Come on Sam, keep up._ "Casey said she wanted what's fair, the spirits are only seeking revenge on one person at a time, they're trying to right the wrong that resulted in their death."

"Okay, yes, they want justice," Sam replied to appease his brother. _He's just like Dad _he thought idly,_ if you don't match the intensity they get pissed off._

"So we help them find justice," Dean concluded.

"Uh," Sam brought his hand up to scratch the back of his neck, then gave a short laugh, "you make it sound like the easiest thing in the world. Bring justice to the dead. Of course, its so simple. Except the dead people are a little confused about who they should be getting revenge on. I hate to ask the obvious question, but how do you propose we go about it?"

"The only person we need to help is Susan Benson. Once she moves on, the form disappears and the other spirits are back to being ineffectual."

"Until they piggy back onto some other spirit."

Dean flicked his hand. "Not our problem."

A mirthless laugh escaped Sam. Black and white with Dean. We need to do this, we don't need to do that, he was proficient at delineation. Whereas Sam was all about the grey. Clarity would be nice Sam thought, but you miss a whole lot when you ignore the grey. But he put aside the ethical considerations for the moment and continued, "Okay, we're going to give Susan Benson what she wants, we're going to find out who killed her. And then what?"

Dean gave a slight shrug of his shoulders but it wasn't a shrug of _I don't know_ it was more a shrug of _we'll cross that bridge when we come to it _and a horrified expression passed over Sam's face as he thought ahead to what Dean may have planned. "You're going to let Susan Benson kill whoever killed her?"

"Not necessarily," the older hunter replied unconvincingly. He wasn't sure how Sam would react to the suggestion and now he could see that it was going to be badly. He was going to have to try and gloss over the ugliness.

"Oh no," Sam protested, "that is not what we do. We don't lead people to their deaths."

Sam felt himself wavering, he wanted Dean to be safe, he wanted the situation to end, but he couldn't stomach the thought of playing God, being instrumental in someone's death. He silently pleaded with his brother to make it palatable, find a way to justify it so that he could support the plan.

Dean held up his hands appealing for calm. "What I was thinking," he modulated his voice so that it was smooth, placating, "is that we find out who killed Susan, go see them, lure Susan out and then convince her that the person who murdered her was going to be dealt with _legally_, that her death had been avenged."

Sam regarded his brother for a moment with pursed lips. "You don't believe that. These spirits are killing people, you don't believe Susan's going to say _take him away boys_."

"The spirits don't have any other choice," Dean replied. "It's not like they can grab their victims by the scruff of the neck and march them to the police station. All they have is violence. I think if we show Susan that her murderer has been found out and will be dealt with, she'll cross over peacefully."

There was a telling silence between the brothers. Sam was waiting for his brother to add something to the effect of _and if the spirit chooses not to take the peaceful option it's out of our hands_ but Dean was determined not to go there.

The younger brother's eyebrows furrowed as he considered another aspect of the plan, "What about Casey? She's the one in control of the form at the moment, how do you bypass her?"

Dean's gaze shifted uncomfortably. "Susan is part of the form, we just ask Casey very nicely to let Susan come out and play."

Sam threw back his head and laughed. "That has got to be the worst plan ever." His humour disappeared as quickly as it had arrived when his brother's face remained impassive. "Tell me you're joking," he implored, searching his brother's face for some sign that he wasn't seriously suggesting this as a plan, that sense was going to prevail.

"It's a good plan Sam," Dean muttered, unhappy about the lack of faith, "but if you can think of something better I'm all ears."

"Why don't we just torch Casey's body?"

"Because it won't work, we already tried that with Susan."

Sam flicked over in his mind all the ways they had disposed of spirits in the past. Something had to be applicable to this situation. Spells? Symbols? Rituals? Half a dozen different solutions buzzed through his brain but ended up falling short for various reasons. Maybe a combination of things? But then it was getting complicated.

With a wistful smile on his face, Dean watched his brother struggle for a solution. "You tell me if you think of something."

-------

When they returned to the motel it was Dean who fired up the laptop and started searching for clues to Susan Benson's murder. It was wrong, Dean never did the research but neither of them commented on it.

Sam couldn't shake his discontent at what Dean had planned. Leading a vengeful spirit to the person who had killed her. Being complicit in that person's possible death. Christ! That was an ethical dilemma times a hundred. It was one person sacrificed to save many, to save Dean first and foremost but still it plumbed to a seediness that didn't have precedent. Sam felt sick at the thought of it.

Dean wanted to minimize his brother's involvement in the plan, he didn't want to force him into doing something that he considered offensive, but very quickly the younger brother's skills at the computer were required and Dean had to call him over.

"Can you find the police report on Susan Benson's death?" Dean reluctantly requested.

"Sure," Sam replied quietly and Dean ceded his chair so that the younger man could plant himself before the screen.

Dean marveled at the speed with which his brother manipulated the keys, the computer held no mysteries for Sam. Ten minutes later the younger brother pronounced, "There's not much to the report. Where and when she was found," his eyes skimmed over the document, "says they spoke to her husband and he confirmed the deceased had been depressed."

"The husband did it," Dean stated.

Sam gave him a dubious look. "That's a big call from someone who hasn't even read the report yet."

"It's always the husband," Dean insisted.

"I thought it was always the butler."

"Okay it was Jeeves or the husband."

Sam blew out his breath with a shake of his head. "Tell me you're going to do more research than that. Tell me you're not going to condemn a man on a hunch." It was hard to tell with Dean where his ethics lay, he'd formed such a hard skin over the years and sometimes what seemed right to him pushed the boundaries.

"I'm not condemning anyone," Dean flared indignantly and then rubbed a hand over his eyes to regain control, "You don't need to take on the role of moral compass Sam, I do know right from wrong. And stop assuming that someone is going to die. I think the spirits want justice not killing, so no-one needs to die."

"Yeah, that's why Casey's had her hand around your throat three times," Sam mumbled.

Dean ignored the sarcastic remark. "Our role is to solve a crime, that's it. Everybody goes home happy."

The younger man looked at his brother with disbelief. "When did you become the optimist? I can't figure out if you really believe the crap you're telling me or if you just think I'm stupid enough to believe it."

Dean sat down heavily on the bed and it was the forced grin that fell well short of the eyes that showed Sam the despair lurking just below the surface. "Sam, I haven't slept properly for three days, I've been attacked three times in a little over 24 hours, I was slightly dead yesterday -" The older hunter shook his head and stopped, unable to describe how confronting it was to have mortality thrust in his face, not really wanting to reveal that it had shaken him, that his confidence was ebbing and he knew he was over compensating as a result, with brashness and maybe a little recklessness, but he couldn't find his equilibrium, couldn't find his rhythym. "I need this to end," he finished simply, "and if you have an alternative plan then let me hear it, but if you don't, this is what we're doing. And we're doing it today."

Sam looked guiltily away. They needed to work together on this, picking holes in his brother's plan wasn't helpful. He didn't have a better idea and the truth was, this could work, giving the spirit what it wanted was probably going to allow it peace. The problem was that they didn't know what the spirit wanted. And if it wanted someone dead then Sam didn't think he could stand by and let that happen.

But one step at a time. This plan deserved a chance and Sam bit back any further complaints. Dean was suffering, that little snippet of honesty showed Sam just how much, and they needed to be pro-active in finding a solution.

"Okay," Sam agreed. "We'll go and see Susan's husband today."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"James Benson?"

"Yes?"

The thirty something home owner looked at the casually dressed pair on his step suspiciously, primed and ready to cut the conversation short with a _thankyou, not today._

"I'm detective Scott, this is detective Young." Dean flipped open a bogus police ID in support of their AC/DC inspired names which was only cursorily examined. "We'd like to talk to you about your wife's death. Can we come inside?"

"Uh, yeah," Benson expression changed from suspicion to shock, he was clearly surprised by the visit from the law. He stepped back to let the Winchester brothers into the house. "In here," he motioned to a formal living area and the brothers settled themselves next to each other on the sofa.

Dean tried not to let the tastefully furnished household affect him, but his shoulders tightened in an unwanted reflex against the comfort and homeliness of the place. It set him on edge, the reminder of what he'd lost, what he might have had but for-. And it gave him an immediate prejudice against the man they were here to question because he was pretty sure James Benson didn't deserve to have it so good.

"What's this about?" their host asked. Not _can I get you a drink, a cup of tea?_ No niceties, just _lets_ _get this over with_.

Dean sat forward in the chair, "We've received some information that your wife may not have killed herself, that she may have been murdered."

Benson blanched. "What- what sort of information," he stammered.

_He so did it_ Dean thought. "We're not at liberty to disclose, but we have reopened the investigation into her death."

The shoulders of their host slumped and he looked shaken.

"Is there anything you want to tell us," Dean pressed, thinking he could end this quickly, that this guy didn't have the instincts to maintain a denial for long.

"Like what?"

"Like what happened on the day your wife died."

"Jim?" A woman's voice called from another room. "Who was at the door?"

Benson sat straighter in the chair and looked toward where the voice was coming from. "My wife," he offered by way of explanation, then amended, "My new wife. Let me just go tell her you're here."

Dean gave a nod and the man hurried out of the room.

"Could he be any more guilty?" the older hunter commented to his brother in a hushed tone when their host had departed. He pushed himself off the sofa to explore the room.

"I don't know," Sam replied non-committally.

"What do you want Sam, a signed confession? You saw the look on the guy's face when we said the investigation into his wife's death had been reopened. Pure horror. And now he's married to some other woman not even a year after his wife died. Come on."

"Can we not make rash judgments," Sam pleaded with a sinking feeling. "We can't count on Susan getting this right, she and her friends are killing random people so if we tell her she was killed by her husband she's liable to believe us."

"No, I don't think she'll get this one wrong," Dean replied confidently. "When she sees her husband she's going to know he killed her."

Sam blew out a frustrated breath. This was crazy. Dean had pegged some guy as a murderer on very flimsy evidence and now he was trusting a spirit to validate that assessment. They needed to leave before they made an awful mistake that couldn't be fixed.

"Son of a bitch," Dean whispered.

"What?" Sam twisted around to where his brother stood looking at photographs.

"Kids," Dean grimaced and held up a photograph of two smiling boys.

"Okay, that's it, we're out of here."

"Settle down Sam," Dean soothed, but this complication made him uneasy. As much as he wanted to believe this could all end peacefully, there was a possibility that Susan was going to kill her husband and that would make orphans of these kids. He didn't know if he could live with that.

"This is my wife Jill," Benson came back into the room with a pretty dark haired woman who was being pushed reluctantly along. "She was a friend of Susan's so she may be able to help with your investigation."

The older hunter looked at his brother. "I think it may be better if we talk to you separately." _He's not going to admit to a murder with his new wife in the room_ Dean thought.

"Okay. You call me when you want to talk," Jill said with a forced smile and eagerly retreated.

Benson looked a little lost without someone to hold onto and flopped down into the chair that he had vacated. "So what is it you want to know?"

"Tell us what happened on the day your wife died," Dean asked, a hard glint in his eye.

"Well," Benson focused on his hands, "I came home from work at about 7 that night and Susan wasn't home, which was unusual. I called my mother in law to see if Susan had picked up the kids, my mother in law picks up the kids from school and then Susan usually collects them at about 5 o'clock. But she hadn't heard from Susan, so I called her cell phone and there was no answer. A couple of hours later I was going to call the police, but then there was a knock on the door and it was the police telling me my wife had killed herself." There was a slight tremble to his jaw, he looked bereft and Dean silently commended _Bravo, give that man an Oscar._

"Why would your wife have killed herself at The Hunter?" Dean asked.

"I don't know," was the quiet response. "I guess so the kids wouldn't find her. We have two boys, they're 8 and 4."

"You said in the police report that your wife was depressed, why was that?"

A guilty look came over Benson's face, his eyes flicked on Dean then flicked away. "We were having marital issues. I-I had started seeing Jill. Things between me and Susan were strained. I didn't know what I wanted, I hadn't actually said that I was leaving her but certainly it had been discussed. She was very upset about the whole situation. And then she killed herself."

"I see," Dean answered. _I see alright, you kill the wife and bypass a messy divorce, keep the kids and don't lose half your assets. _"It was you wasn't it, you killed your wife."

The accusation was made so casually that Benson wasn't sure he had heard right. "What? I didn't do anything."

"Yeah you did. You killed her to avoid the complication of getting divorced."

"That's ridiculous," their host protested and looked beseechingly at Sam for some support.

"Listen we can do this the hard way or we can do this the easy way. And trust me, you don't want to choose the hard way," Dean threatened.

Sam regarded his brother. He noticed the tightness of his features, the slight narrowing of the eyes, the lazy smirk forming at the edge of his mouth. He knew that look, there was a coldness to it that frightened him, a distance that only Sam would understand to mean _I don't give a shit what happens to this guy, he'll just be getting what he deserves_. And Sam wasn't sure what it was about Benson that had put Dean so offside. He wasn't objectionable, he hadn't been rude, but Dean had absolved himself of any care and concern for the man and determined that it was time to send the plan into the next phase.

"Thankyou for your time Mr Benson," Sam said hurriedly and stood up. "I'm sure that will help us with our investigation."

Icy green eyes turned onto the young hunter. "We're not done here Sam."

"I think we are," Sam replied meaningfully, using his expression to tell his brother that he wanted to leave now.

Benson was confused at the stand-off between the 'detectives', he had his hands on the arm of the chair ready to push himself up, keen to get these men out of his house but he was frozen mid action, unsure if he was getting up or not.

"Could I use your bathroom," Dean asked with a polite smile.

Sam tilted his head. _Don't do it._

"Sure," their host replied and stood up, "its to the left at the end of the hall."

"Thankyou." The older brother left the room ignoring the silent plea from Sam.

The young hunter fixed an awkward smile on Benson, choking inwardly on his fear and helplessness. Sam wanted to charge down the hall after his brother and put a stop to what he had planned, drawing out the spirit, but he was stayed by the thought that this could end things. As worried as he was about what might come next, this could be the end of the nightmare for Dean.

Sam was disgusted by his own weakness. His overriding need for Dean to be saved was preventing him from doing what he thought was right, allowing him to passively be carried along on this road that Dean had plotted. Sam wasn't sure that Benson had killed his wife. How could you ever be sure of that without a confession? What Dean cynically saw as an act of grief, Sam had considered genuine. He had to avert his eyes from the man before him who was going to bear the brunt of this plan probably in the worst possible way.

Dean wandered down the hall unhurriedly, stood outside the bathroom and lingered, pretending to be interested in photographs on the wall, waiting for Casey to appear. He was primed, he was drawn as tight as a bow, ready for whatever was to come.

A flash of movement out of the corner of his eye alerted him to Casey's presence and he turned quickly to face her, arms in front of him in a gesture of surrender.

"Wait," he said quietly. "Susan needs to see this. Susan needs to see where we are."

A ghostly arm shot out and Dean was pinned to the wall by a hand around his throat. He struggled briefly but he couldn't even pretend to put up a fight, Casey wasn't solid anymore and his hands slid right through her.

One of the worst things about being strangled, (aside from the inability to breathe) was that he was unable to talk. Any other mode of attack he could take the pain and continue a conversation (within reason) but the hand crushing his throat kept him frustratingly quiet. He couldn't plead his case, couldn't explain to Casey what they were doing here and why.

Dean reached into his pocket and touched the packets of salt in there. He didn't have the shotgun with him, it would have been too conspicuous, the packets of salt were his only defense and he didn't want to use them yet, he didn't want to send Casey away because he wasn't sure she would come back and Susan needed to see her husband for this to work. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, his brain yelled at him _okay buddy, time to breathe now. _

Another thing he hated about this mode of attack was how quickly the situation became urgent. Take a beating and you could be there all day, but with this it took about five minutes for game over. He kicked on the wall behind him trying to alert Sam.

In the sitting room Sam heard the banging.

"What was that?" Benson asked in puzzlement, but the young hunter was already out the door and into the hallway. He stopped when he saw Dean against the wall and Casey/Susan with her hand at his throat.

"Hey," he called to the spirit, hoping to distract her from her murderous intent, but she gave Sam a cursory glance, perhaps looking to see if there was a shotgun raised in her direction and then disregarded him.

Dean was flushed in the face, his open mouth was desperate for even the smallest trickle of air. _Do something_ his eyes pleaded as he shot a look at his brother. _Use the salt, idiot_ Sam's eyes shot back, but the fact that Dean hadn't used it despite his desperate situation was an indication to Sam that he wanted an alternative.

"Mr Benson," Sam commanded and grabbed the man by the arm, pulling him into the hallway where the spirit could see him.

Benson took in the sight of Dean being attacked with a shocked gasp but when he recognised the spirit he blanched and clutched at the wall like he was about to fall. "Susan?" He looked at Sam with a wild expression, trying to understand what was going on. How could it be that his dead wife was standing in the hallway? His mind reeled.

At the sound of Benson's voice the spirit turned and narrowed her eyes. The apparition jolted, shuddered and then asked, "Jim?" The hand came away from Dean's throat and he collapsed to the floor gulping in air.

Sam wasn't sure what to do, stay with Benson or rush to his brother. Dean's eyes were closed and other than taking in deep breaths he wasn't moving, was making no attempt to rise. That decided Sam on his course. He took some tentative steps toward the spirit with his hands held up.

"I'm not going to hurt you, I just want to get to my brother."

The spirit said nothing but came toward him. Or maybe it was toward Benson because they were in the same direction. Sam took some more steps, skirted around the apparition and without taking his focus off the woman reached his brother's prone form.

Dean was curled on his side, his chest convulsing while he gulped in air. His head was spinning so badly he felt like he was tumbling end over end. He couldn't move, couldn't even open his eyes, his body wouldn't let him divert energy from the vital task of taking in air. His top half was on fire and there was a crushing weight on his lungs which made every laboured breath a painful exercise. He had the urge to be sick and in a panic he wondered how he could possibly throw up when he was trying to suck in air, the two were mutually exclusive.

This was way worse than yesterday, Dean thought. Yesterday he had stopped breathing, he'd been as good as dead, but this was way worse. Being unconscious last time had been a blessing and Dean wished he would pass out now, just until his body had righted itself because this semi-consciousness of feeling without any control was agony. He managed to fumble a shaky hand to his head and press on his temple to try and ease the throbbing or settle the spinning. But it did neither.

"Dean," Sam whispered, taking his eyes off the spirit momentarily to scan his brother.

The hand that Dean had raised to his head fell away, his eyes remained shut and Sam wasn't sure if his brother had just passed out.

"Dean?" Sam called anxiously.

"Just- give me- a minute," the fallen man requested breathlessly.

The younger hunter returned his attention to the spirit and her former husband. They were staring at each other, Benson pale and breathing in rasps. "How?" he kept repeating.

Susan wasn't going for his throat which was a relief to Sam, maybe Dean had been right about this, she just wanted an opportunity to be avenged, to have the truth told. No sooner had the thought occurred to him than Benson was picked up and thrown into the nearby wall.

"That's for cheating on me," the spirit hissed.

"I'm sorry," the husband replied in fright, slowly rising from the floor which Sam found pretty gutsy, Benson could have stayed down, Sam wouldn't have blamed him for a little cowardice, being confronted by your dead wife was an outrageous situation. But with one hand on the wall and the other hand held up toward the apparition, Benson stood up and said, "I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm so sorry Suzie."

Dean opened his eyes and couldn't find focus, everything was sliding in and out of view. He swallowed and reached out a hand to grip onto his brother for support as he painfully pulled himself into a sitting position and leant back against the wall.

"Nice reunion," the injured hunter commented, "touching, makes it all worthwhile." He gave his brother a light slap on the leg. "Go tell her why we're here."

Sam gave his brother an imploring look. "Do I have to?"

"I didn't get choked for nothing."

With a sigh Sam rose and moved toward the couple who were frozen in place staring at each other.

"Listen Susan-," Sam began and the spirit turned quickly toward him with a furious expression. With a flick of her hand she threw him backward toward Dean and into the wall where he crumpled to the ground winded.

"Hey," Dean protested as loudly as his battered throat would allow. "We're trying to help you here." He grabbed onto the window sill above him and pulled himself upright but when he was standing he realized it was way too soon for that sort of move, his whole body felt weak and there was no way his legs had the strength to keep him up. He carefully slid down the wall into a crouch, a compromise between standing and sitting.

"You want justice for your murder," Dean explained to the spirit, "we understand. We're here to help you get that. We'll take your husband to the police, he won't get away with killing you."

"What?" Benson cried heatedly, eyes dancing between Dean and the apparition indecisively. "I didn't kill her, she killed herself."

"Give it up," Dean replied impatiently. "She didn't kill herself, we know it was you."

The husband looked with pleading at his deceased wife. "Suzie, tell them the truth. Tell them you killed yourself. This is crazy."

Sam had to second that emotion. This was crazy all right. The young man was on his hands and knees trying to get his breathing right after the unexpected meeting with the wall. But this situation was also so much calmer than he had expected. Sure there'd been a bit of agro, a bit of damage, but he'd expected some sort of fire and brimstone when Susan saw her husband and so far it had been a lot of standing around looking at each other. She wasn't making any move to kill him. Was she going to get satisfaction from that?

"I didn't kill myself," the spirit said, then confusion crossed her face. "Somebody killed me."

"Yeah, your husband," Dean prompted.

"No," she replied quickly. "Somebody else."

_Somebody else? _Dean thought. _Freaking great._ Now they were back to square one. It could have been anyone. Any butlers around here?

Had to admit he was relieved though, that the spirit had some certainty about who didn't kill her. Could have been an awful mistake if she had accepted that her husband was the killer if it wasn't true. Or was she confused now? Maybe he had killed her and her memory had been messed up in the dying process.

The spirit's attention moved toward another room and her face clouded. "It was her," she pronounced and in a flash was in the kitchen beside Jill.

Both Sam and Dean scrambled up and raced into the kitchen. Dean had to steel himself with the words _I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine_ to distract himself from the reality of it not being completely true, not yet anyway. Amazing how a few minutes of the body being deprived of oxygen could completely screw up the system. He still wasn't breathing comfortably, his head and chest were throbbing, his strength was down and his limbs felt heavy and uncoordinated. But he wasn't going to draw attention to his infirmity.

They stopped in the doorway to the kitchen and saw that Susan had Jill pinned against a cupboard door by a hand to the throat. Dean tilted his head slightly and thought _that was me yesterday, in a kitchen being strangled by this spirit_.

Sam reached into his pocket for the salt but Dean stayed his hand with a shake of his head. _Not yet_ he mouthed.

"Susan you don't want to do this," Dean soothed. He took a slow step toward the spectre but then was hurled against the cupboard within arm's length of where Jill was pinned. The jarring served to emphasis how poorly he was feeling, if he wasn't being held he would have slumped to the floor. A groan escaped him and his eyes closed for a moment while he pulled himself together. At least he wasn't being choked, that was the difference between Casey and Susan being in control of the form, Susan had no particular interest in him being dead.

"You don't want to do this," Dean said. "If you kill her you're no better than her. The truth is out now and we'll make sure she pays for killing you."

Benson had quietly joined Sam in the doorway and he asked in a shaky voice, "Jill? Is it true? Did you kill Susan?" But no sound was emitting from his current wife while she was still being choked.

"Let her go," Dean demanded in a rough voice as Jill's eyes rolled back and she passed out.

Sam edged forward with the salt in his hand and Dean called, "Not yet Sam." How long did he have, he wondered, how long until Jill was dead.

"What would your kids think of this?" the pinned hunter asked. "What would your boys say if they could see you now? Is this who they'd want to see? Would it make them proud?"

Susan looked sharply at Dean. "Its only fair," she pronounced. "I'm entitled."

Dean gave a wry smile, "Look I understand, but its not the way things work. You want to be better than her, that's where honour lies. You've made your point, now let her go."

The two regarded each other for a moment, the spectre trying to decide if the hunter was right, trying to decide whether she wanted her revenge to be complete or if she already had satisfaction.

The ghostly fingers loosened their grip around the victim's throat and Jill fell heavily to the floor gulping in air.

"Suzie I'm so sorry," Benson offered with tears in his eyes. "I'm so sorry, I had no idea." There was a moment of shared expression, where understanding and regret passed between husband and former wife, then he strode to his current wife's side, gently called her name and waited for the heaving breaths to subside.

"You did the right thing," Dean addressed the spirit with a smile, although he was still pinned to the cupboard which made him nervous. Was Casey going to take over in a minute? "You did the honourable thing. She hasn't got away with killing you."

The spirit matched his smile with a nod and in a flash of light she dissipated into nothing. The pressure holding Dean vanished and he slid down to a sitting position. Sam raced forward and crouched beside his brother, giving him a searching look, peering into his face.

"You okay?"

He'd noticed Dean wince when he'd been thrown against the cupboard, he knew that Dean still had to be feeling the effects from being choked. He had a vain hope that his brother would respond with something like _my head is killing me and I don't think I can stand up._ It would be so much easier for Sam to know these things than to have to try and guess at them. But he wasn't really surprised when Dean responded with a simple and inadequate, "Yeah, I'm fine."

Sam held out a hand and Dean took a hold, pulling himelf up, determined not to groan, not to grimace, not to give any sign that he was anything but perfect because it had been two days of Sam hovering over him like he was breakable and he was over it, sick of that worried look in his brother's eye, sick of the question _are you okay_. However he was feeling (and it wasn't great), it was a matter not to be shared with his younger brother.

When Dean was on his feet, Sam went over to where Benson knelt beside his wife and said, "I'm sorry about all this. It must be quite a shock to you."

"That my current wife killed my former wife? Yeah, yeah it is," Benson said with a hint of wryness in his voice. He looked down at his still unconscious wife and muttered, "I can't believe she did it. Not just to Susan, but to the kids as well, they have really struggled with their mother being gone." He shook his head sadly, "What a mess." He raised his eyes to Sam and asked, "So what happens now?"

"Well that's up to you. You're the only one who knows Jill killed Susan, so its up to you whether you want to turn her in to the police."

A slight smile appeared on Benson's face. "I thought you were the police?"

Sam blushed, "Oh well, yeah, no, I mean-"

"It's okay," Benson interjected. "I kind of figured you weren't police when you didn't freak out at seeing Susan. So who are you guys?"

"Nobody," Dean cut in. "We're nobody and we're leaving. Come on Sam."

Jill was just starting to come around when the boys made their exit. Dean couldn't help but wonder whether Benson would stand by her or wash his hands of her.

At the car Sam commented, "Nice guy." It was deliberately provocative, he was wondering if Dean would give him some insight into why he had taken such a dislike to Benson.

"No he wasn't, he cheated on his wife," Dean pointed out.

That couldn't be the reason for the dislike. Dean was a loose as they came with women, so he hadn't formed a prejudice against the man because of the way he'd treated his wife. "Oh yeah. Still, he came across as a nice guy."

Dean shook his head and muttered, "Not to me he didn't."

Sam left it there. It wasn't really important why his brother had disliked Benson, it was more a matter of interest and he didn't want to turn it into a big deal.

As they made their way back to the motel both of the brothers were wondering whether this ordeal was over. Was Dean safe now? Only time and the wailing woman would tell.


	9. Chapter 9

It gets a bit angsty in this chapter. I didn't plan that, it just sort of happened. And of course Dean is struggling physically because it just isn't a chapter if Dean isn't hurt (I have a problem I know).

* * *

Chapter 9

Dean was experiencing a strong sense of déjà vu. Not just because they were back at the cemetery after dark looking to salt and burn a body (Casey's this time), but because it was once again only a matter of hours since he'd been attacked, strangled to within an inch of his life, and he was feeling as poorly tonight as he'd been feeling last night when they had put a match to Susan Benson's corpse. He'd sucked down some aspirin at the motel but either he was becoming immune or they weren't making it as strong as they used to because it had barely made a dent in the way he was feeling.

"This is such overkill," Dean complained, rolling his eyes and shaking his head, which was lost on his brother trudging a few steps ahead.

Sam clicked his tongue. "Yeah you said that. About fifty times. Just deal with it."

"We should be at a bar. I should be drinking beer right now." _Or back at the motel sleeping_, which was what Dean really felt like doing.

Sam stopped and waited for his brother to catch up to him. "Okay, I get it," he remarked through clenched teeth, "you're not happy. Seriously, you don't need to mention it again. I'm going to lose it if you mention it again."

He turned on his heel and resumed his careful search through the cemetery.

Dean wondered if his brother knew that he had just provided a motivation to keep complaining, Sam losing it would ordinarily be a great outcome. But not tonight, Dean just wasn't in the mood for it tonight not matter how amusing it might be. And there was no sport in it. Sam was a stretching thread, it wasn't going to take much to make him snap. Which was confusing. The job was pretty much over, Dean couldn't understand why Sam was so tense.

The irony in complaining about being at the cemetery wasn't lost on Dean, he'd been the one who had driven them here. There had been objections raised at the motel to Sam's suggestion that they salt and burn Casey's body, Dean had tried to make his brother understand that it wasn't necessary now that Susan was gone but Sam had been insistent, vehement that it should be done and Dean just hadn't felt like arguing. It was only once they had arrived at the cemetery that Dean had fully appreciated how much he didn't want to be out here tonight, how much he didn't feel like digging a hole. And he'd been moaning about it ever since.

"I just don't understand why you think we need to do this. It's not going to achieve anything."

"Oh I swear to God."

Sam threw down the items he was holding and turned to face his brother hands on hips. Dean knew that was a cue for him to do the same, get into it physically, but the last thing he felt like was some brotherly combat. He deliberately kept a firm grip on the shovel in one hand and the shotgun in the other so that his brother wouldn't start throwing punches.

"What, are we throwing down over this? That seems a little excessive."

There was a smirk to Dean's tone but it masked an underlying unease. _What is up with him tonight?_ Dean found his brother's short fuse humorous but out of character, especially when there was no obvious reason for it. Dean suspected that he had said or done something to annoy Sam but a quick mental recap of the events of the afternoon revealed nothing to warrant the behavior, nothing obvious anyway.

The shadows playing off Sam's form gave him an uncommon menace, with fists balled at his sides, opening and closing.

"You want to throw down over this?" Sam asked in a dangerous tone.

"Usually I would love it," Dean said lightly, "but it doesn't really seem fair when I was kind of dead yesterday and nearly dead today, I feel like you may have the advantage. But take a swing if you want."

Sam took a deep steadying breath. "Enough complaining," he pronounced, with a point of his finger that stayed directed at Dean longer than necessary. "Shut your mouth and finish the job." He bent down stiffly, his suppressed rage making his joints taut and inflexible, picked up the items he had tossed aside and started walking through the cemetery again.

"I just don't see why we're making work for ourselves…" Dean started, not intending to prod his brother, honestly trying to understand.

When Sam turned around slowly, lips pressed together hard, face a picture of murderous intent, Dean ducked his head and said quickly, "No, I mean seriously..."

"Jesus Christ!" Sam yelled, way too loud for the stealthy operation. "Usually getting you to talk is like pulling teeth but tonight you won't shut up. What is with that?"

Laughter broke out of Dean. Sam's behavior was so out of character it was comical. His mood was so dark it was funny. Dean drew the hand still holding the shotgun tightly across his ribs to act as a brace against the burn in his chest and brought his other hand, still holding the shovel, up to his head to try and ease the throbbing.

"Look at you," the older hunter choked, trying to recover his composure, "You've got anger management issues. You need to take up yoga or something. Maybe have a conversation with Buddha."

"Yeah, well look at you," Sam remarked in disgust, his brother's obvious pain hardening his tone. "There's nothing funny about this. You need to get serious."

"And you need to lighten up," Dean replied, short staccato laughs winding down his fit of humor. He took some deep breaths, wiped away the tears in his eyes and said, "Christ you're funny when you're angry."

"And you're hilarious when you look like death warmed over."

"Oh come on," Dean teased, "I'm the king of comedy. If you just pulled that stick out of your ass you'd see how funny I am."

"No you're not," Sam muttered, refusing to be placated, "you're not one bit funny." Again he turned away from his brother and back to the task of locating Casey's headstone, his flashlight jerking left and right as he moved.

Dean shook his head. He was going to have to ask the question. Something was really eating at Sam and as much as he didn't want to know what it was, as much as he knew he was going to regret asking, his brother needed to unburden or he was going to burst a blood vessel.

Dean took a few hurried steps to catch up with the younger man and lay a hand on his arm. "Alright spill."

"What?" Sam countered belligerently, eyes averted.

"Don't play coy, just tell me what your problem is."

"No Dean, because you're going to belittle it and tell me it's nothing."

"Just tell me," Dean cajoled. "Before you have a aneurysm."

Sam turned to face his brother, the peeking moonlight illuminating the twitch in his jaw muscles, the flare of his nostrils. He said in a quiet angry voice. "You know, if _anybody_ else was the target of this spirit, you'd be _suggesting_ the salt and burn, whether it was overkill or not, you'd want to be sure, you'd want to be thorough. But because it's you,-" Sam shrugged, "you're half assed about it. You don't seem to care if you're safe or not."

Dean was taken aback by the accusation, totally unprepared for it, and stammered, "I care. What do you mean? Of course I care."

"Well you don't show it."

The blanket of darkness emboldened Sam, made the words come easier, loosening his tongue as good as alcohol. "You know, I never realized how little regard you had for yourself until this job. You have constantly put yourself in situations where you could be attacked-," with a tilt of the head Sam amended, "-were attacked, four times, four freaking times you were attacked. And you never really took it seriously. You died for Christ's sake. You were not breathing and I had your life in my hands and that was bullshit, it didn't need to happen, but you just didn't care enough to prevent it. God forbid that you should take any preventative measures because how wimpy would that be. God forbid that you should let me make any suggestions because what an affront to your seniority that would be." Sam huffed. "So we are going to do this salt and burn without another word of complaint because _I_ want to be thorough, _I_ want to be sure you're safe. You got that?"

There was a momentary pause while Dean gathered his thoughts and worked through what his brother was saying. Dean could hear the _need _in the words, the need for _safe,_ and the need for _no more_. But the sting of criticism dulled his sensitivity and defensive rebuttal sprung to his lips. He couldn't let Sam get away with what he'd said. He had accused Dean of being reckless, uncaring and what?- having a death wish. He couldn't let that go by unchallenged.

"This is the job Sam. It's dangerous and we take risks. If you think I enjoy that, or that I _try_ to push my luck," he sniffed derisively, "then you don't know me very well."

"Or maybe I know you better than you know yourself," Sam replied tartly.

"How could you possibly?"Dean snapped. "You've been living in Disneyland for the last four years, playing house with a smurfette, how could you possibly know me?"

"Here we go," Sam said in a knowing tone. "My great failing, going away to college. I'm sorry I wanted something better, I know you see that as a betrayal. You and Dad are never going to forgive me for leaving are you?"

"Don't cast me in the same mould as Dad," Dean huffed and then felt disloyal to their father at the words so continued quickly, "I've got no problem with you going to college, I never had a problem with it, but the way you went about it really sucked. Storming out, never calling, avoiding _my_ calls. What was I, an embarrassment to you? Didn't match up to your new friends?"

There was heat in Dean's words, but no real commitment. He didn't want to argue about _this_, it was done, it was in the past. But now that the lid on this long bottled sore point had been lifted, blame and recrimination flowed through the breach, even as Dean tried to suppress it.

Sam was surprised by Dean's comment. He wasn't sure if Dean was just poking at his armour or if he had genuinely interpreted Sam's actions that way.

"No you weren't an embarrassment, I was trying to make a break and I didn't want you guilting me into coming back."

"Because that would have been the worst thing in the world, right?"

"Yeah," Sam admitted, "yeah, it would have been."

Dean snorted, cut his eyes away and down, evidence of a blow scored. "Well thanks for that."

Sam regarded his brother sadly. "You always take it personally. It wasn't meant to be personal, it wasn't about you."

Bitterness tugged at a corner of Dean's lips, "Nothing is about me. I know where I stand, I'm the means to an end, it's never about me."

There was something in the statement that stopped Sam cold. _That _went beyond Stanford, that was Dean revealing something about himself and his insecurities. Sam just wasn't sure what it was and he felt a fleeting frustration that Dean was so oblique, had to be interpreted rather than read.

There was silence. An uncomfortable silence in Dean's opinion, he didn't like that it was his words hanging between them, that Sam was analyzing them, placing an importance on them that hadn't been intended.

"What does that mean?" Sam asked hesitantly. The anger in his voice was gone and he sounded a little uneasy about what unexplored emotional territory they were heading into now.

Dean clamped his mouth shut, determined not to say anymore. The air crackled with unspoken hurt and unresolved grievances but he considered they'd had more than enough honesty for one night, time to hang out the _closed _sign and lock the door.

"Nothing. Lets go."

As he took a step he suddenly lost strength in his knees and buckled just a little. It was a reminder of how hard he'd pushed himself these past few days and that he was reaching his physical limit, maybe even skating beyond it. _Just get through tonight_ he inwardly entreated, _a good night's sleep and_ _everything will be fine tomorrow_.

The weakness in his knees was only momentary and he barely broke stride as he moved past his younger brother, eager to dispense with the chat and get back to the job, but Sam grabbed his sleeve and halted him. They gazed at each other for a moment, the younger brother not sure what he wanted to say. _I'm the means to an end. _What did that mean? He searched his brother's face. As guarded as Dean kept himself, his eyes were truly a window to his soul and sometimes they leaked information against his will, gave Sam a clue as to what remained unsaid. But not tonight. The dim light shrouded Dean's face, hiding whatever nuances may have unwittingly been exposed.

Dean roughly pulled his sleeve out of Sam's grasp. "Let's just do this."

His flashlight bounced over headstones left and right but it sometimes took three flicks of the light for him to read what was written, he was distracted, berating himself for starting that conversation. Talking was always such a bad idea, he should have known better. He figured parts of what was said were going to come up again, he doubted Sam would let it rest and he just had to be ready to fend off any conversation that led in the wrong direction.

As Dean walked away Sam thought to himself, _that argument resolved nothing. _Dean hadn't made any admissions, he'd been dismissive of the whole idea that he wasn't taking as much care with this job as he would have if someone else had been at its centre. How it had turned into a discussion about going away to college Sam couldn't even remember, he hadn't intended to go there. Still, he felt a release from having gotten what was bothering him off his chest, he didn't feel quite so uptight and at least now it was out there, it had been said, whether Dean agreed with it or not.

"Over here," the older brother called when his light finally fell upon the tombstone they were searching for. He ground his shovel into the dirt and leaned heavily on the handle, dropping his head onto his chest trying to gather some strength for the physical part of their task.

When Sam was beside him Dean stated, "I'll dig." Sam had done the digging last night, it wasn't fair for him to do it again.

"No, I'll do it," the younger hunter replied quickly.

Dean blinked away the slight, the inference that he was incapable, and insisted, "I can do it Sam."

"Yeah I know," the younger brother said lightly, mindful of the ice cracking beneath him, that he was a breath away from insulting his brother. He didn't want to say the wrong thing and start up another argument. "You just look a bit tired, you've had a tough couple of days, let me do it."

"Are you telling me I look like crap?" Dean's asked roughly, but Sam caught the hint of amusement in his tone.

"No, you look… awesome," Sam replied uncertainly, not sure how to end that sentence. He almost laughed when his brother seemed to accept it as a statement of fact.

"Damn straight," Dean added like an amen.

"Just a little under the weather is all. So why don't you be the guard and I'll be the grunt."

The older hunter would have liked nothing better than to say, _go for it_ but he'd sat on the sidelines last night while his brother dug up Susan Benson's grave and he just couldn't bring himself to allow it again. He had that familiar inclination to try and overcompensate for not feeling well, he didn't want to be the weak link.

"We'll dig together," Dean suggested, and lifted his shovel with a large sod of earth like the matter was settled.

"Okay," Sam said slowly. "What about a lookout?"

"I really don't think we'll need one tonight. The whole point of Casey latching on to Susan's spirit was that she couldn't work herself into a form. I don't think we have much to fear from her."

The younger Winchester regarded his brother dubiously. It wasn't unheard of to do a salt and burn without a lookout, they often did it solo, but when there were two of them it seemed odd that they not have separate roles. Was this what he'd been talking about earlier, Dean not taking sufficient precautions with the job? Or did Dean honestly think there was no danger and they should expedite things?

Dean was struggling. Sam could tell from the slump of his posture, the laziness in his gestures, the sigh in his voice. In the dark it was hard to tell how pale Dean was, and there was going to be an objection raised to Sam shooting a hand out to feel his forehead, but he was pretty sure his brother was running on empty. Sam felt guilt creep over him, he was the one who had insisted they come out here tonight to do a job that, realistically, could have waited until tomorrow night. He'd got so caught up in his indignation about Dean's objection to the salt and burn that he hadn't read his brother's physical cues or considered how ordinary he must be feeling or appreciated how tired he was. But there was nothing he could do about it now, Dean would never admit to his incapacity, the best Sam could do for his brother was finish this job as quickly as possible and get Dean back to the motel.

"Alright," Sam sighed, not entirely happy with the decision but not wanting to make an issue of it. He picked up his shovel and joined his brother in the dig.

They carved out the grave, working with a matching rhythym and a knowledge of each other's space that was efficient and easy.

When the hole was waist deep an icy chill swept over Dean causing him to shudder. He straightened and looked around with a frown on his face.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked, still, alert.

"It just got cold," Dean replied, scanning the darkness. Or was he mistaken? Maybe the cold was just a symptom of what ailed him.

But then he felt it again, like a passing breeze, the iciness of it raising the hairs on his arms.

"Did you feel that?" Dean whispered.

"No," the younger man replied, casting his eyes about warily.

If Sam didn't feel it then it wasn't nature at work, they were only standing a foot apart. The older hunter climbed out of the hole, dropped his shovel and picked up the shotgun.

"Keep digging," he directed with a flick of his hand, "maybe hurry it up a bit."

"Easy for you to say," Sam muttered.

Dean prowled around the gravesite, his senses alert. Casey didn't have Susan Benson's form to call upon but Dean wasn't sure what she was capable of doing solo. He thought she was spent, but maybe unearthing her grave was giving her some juice. He felt coldness sweep over him again and then a small shove in the back. The spirit was definitely here and she was trying to start something.

Sam was going to interpret the spirit's presence as some sort of vindication for the salt and burn but Dean was of the opinion that if they hadn't directly threatened Casey, hadn't upset her by defiling her grave, she probably wouldn't have troubled them. He still believed that the salt and burn was overkill, they could have left the spirit harmless in limbo, but now that she had been provoked, her existence threatened, she presented an unknown danger. There was no telling how forceful Casey could become in the name of self preservation.

Dean walked in widening circles around the grave, trying to draw the spirit away from Sam. There was a harder shove in his back, making him stumble. He steadied himself then twisted around to yell, "Stop doing that. It's really annoying."

He continued with the vigilant stroll, shotgun raised and ready but other than Sam digging all was still. It was an illusion, the calm was masking a lurking threat and it was frustrating not being able to confront it. Dean was light on his feet and tense, he could feel his heart beating hard against his ribs, every nerve straining for action. _Work yourself into a form _he silently entreated_ let me see you._

From the corner of his eye he saw his brother falter and curse. _Dammit she's going for Sam as well._ He drew his path inward nearer to the grave, and asked his brother tersely, "Getting close?"

"Yeah," Sam replied, scraping his shovel across wood. "Real close."

"Awesome," Dean mumbled. _Nearly over._

There was a hissing sound behind Dean. He turned quickly and registered a fleeting surprise at being confronted by a fine mist hovering only inches from him. At the same moment that his finger pulled the trigger and the shotgun exploded, he was shoved violently in the chest. His arms flailed and he staggered backward into nothing, a hole.

All Sam could do was try and fend Dean off, prevent him from being impaled on the shovel. They were a tangle of arms and legs. Dean instinctively grabbed a hold of his brother to try and slow his descent but that resulted in Sam losing his balance and toppling as well. The wood of the coffin splintered under Dean's weight, wedging him tightly and there was nothing he could do, no way to avoid his brother landing heavily on top of him.

When the dust settled, Dean groaned deeply. His brother's knees were in his chest and he tried to push them away but there was nowhere for them to go, the hole wasn't made for two. He could feel Sam scrabbling, trying to extricate himself and the knees in Dean's chest pressed down even harder causing a yelp of pain. Sam managed to find space for his feet on either side of Dean and he crouched down to examine his brother.

"Are you hurt?" Sam asked with concern.

"A little bit," Dean choked, struggling to find his breath.

"Where?"

Dean had to think about the question because, shit, he hurt all over. "Ribs," he gasped, bringing an arm up to brace them. He suspected Sam may have cracked a rib or two when his knees jammed into them. Sam's hand probed gently over his chest and when there was a sharp intake of breath the hand instantly came away.

"They could be broken," Sam sounded dubious. "What else?"

"I don't know man, just help me up so we can finish. We can play doctor when we're done." _Yikes, that did not come out right at all. "_We will not be playing doctor when we're done," he amended.

Dean didn't relish the idea of getting up, it was going to be an aching nightmare, he was hurting up and down, front and back, inside and outside, new pain, old pain, it was all just one big swirl. But he was distinctly uncomfortable jammed into the splintered coffin and he didn't even want to think about what was lying underneath him. He pushed his hands down beside him, trying to lever himself out.

"Yeah, right," Sam said quickly and helped extricate Dean from the shattered wood.

Dean's head was pounding mercilessly, it had struck the coffin hard as he'd landed and he lifted a hand to the back to check for bleeding. There was no stickiness on his hand but he could feel a lump forming.

"Head?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Dean sighed. "Add it to the list."

Standing shoulder deep in the pit, he folded his arms over the lip of the grave onto the abutting grass and laid his head down, allowing his eyes to close for a moment. This spirit had kicked his ass repeatedly and he needed a minute to pull himself together. He felt like a human pinata, how many more hits before he was going to burst? Not many, his throbbing body was telling him. He groaned.

Sam clapped him on the shoulder gently and left his hand there, a silent reassurance of _you're okay. _It was exactly the comfort that Dean required at that moment, bonding without talking. They stayed that way for a moment, until Dean felt fortified and pulled away.

"Okay, let's finish this," the older hunter stated purposefully, and addressing the surrounds yelled "because I am done with dead chicks trying to kill me."

He climbed out of the grave and grabbed the canister of salt. Sam picked up his shovel and gave the coffin a few more strikes with the blade so that the corpse within was entirely exposed, then climbed out to stand next to his brother. Dean poured out the salt in a steady stream over the body and didn't flinch when he saw his brother take a few steps backward, recoiling from a shove to the chest. The shotgun blast meant Casey was starting from scratch trying to work up to some power. He placed the canister on the ground and picked up the can filled with gasoline, dousing it liberally over the area that had just been covered by the salt.

"You want to do the honors," Dean asked.

"Love to," Sam replied and he fished into his pocket drawing out a box of matches. The first match struck flared into life and Sam waited for a second to make sure the flame took hold before throwing it into the pit. A bonfire sprang up immediately, the heat stinging their faces and forcing them back.

Dean became hypnotised by the flaring light, he couldn't draw his eyes away from the flicker and sway. He lost track of everything and fell into a sort of trance. He was overheated, his spine prickled with sweat, his face was ascorch but there was a perverse pleasure to it. Until it became a kind of out-of-body experience. He tried to raise a hand to his forehead, to press against the pain inside, but found he couldn't raise his arm. He could see his arm, and he could wiggle his fingers, but it was an odd sensation, like the hand belonged to someone else. And he couldn't make the arm do anything beyond finger wiggling. It momentarily fascinated him, while at the same time he thought _that's not right_.

He knew he was in trouble. It registered that he'd left _okay_ too far behind. And he felt a passive acceptance of _you can only push so far, _an understanding of cause and effect. There comes a point where the body can take no more.

When the world shifted violently on it's axis he had no chance of finding his balance, quick action was beyond him, gravity went to work, pulling and pushing him downward.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw his brother move and his actions seemed incredibly fast. Sam lurched toward him, eyes wide, mouth open and Dean couldn't quite figure out what he was doing, his mind was tacky. Whatever it was, Dean missed it. He closed his eyes against the spin of the world and that was the cue for a complete shutdown, exhaustion took control, mind and body switched off and Dean was unconscious before he hit the ground.


	10. Chapter 10

Okay last chapter.

Thankyou all for reading it really is much appreciated. And thanks again to those of you who reviewed.

There is some major angst and a last minute freak out in this chapter because you know, if you're going to wind up a story you may as well do it with some major angst and a last minute freak out.

And just a reminder that this story is set after Hellhouse, there's some talk of John and a reference to something that happened in Shadow.

* * *

**Chapter 10.**

Sam watched it all unfold before him as if in slow motion. He saw his brother sway and it occurred to him that he was going to go down, so when Dean's knees buckled Sam was already turned toward him and he lunged forward, just managing to grasp the lapels of Dean's jacket with his fingertips, holding his brother in mid-air for a moment before gently settling him on the ground.

The standard examination was performed, taking a rough measure of the condition Dean was in. Sam was relieved to find his brother's vital signs only slightly north of normal, at least nothing dramatic was going on.

"Hey," Sam called softly, tension coiling in him when his brother remained still and unresponsive. He didn't know why Dean was unconscious, there had been no immediate cause and effect. He wasn't sure whether the passing out was a cumulative effect from the events of the past few days or the result of some undiagnosed injury. Maybe the bump on the head when Dean had fallen into the grave had been a little harder than he thought. He gave his brother a light tap on the cheek, "Hey. Dean."

Dean struggled back to consciousness, forcing open eyelids that were weighted and reluctant. He blinked up at the stars trying to chase away the confusion, aware of an all-over ache, a pervasive, unpleasant, wearying heaviness throughout his body.

"Hey," Sam greeted with a relieved smile. "You had me worried for a minute. What's going on? You alright?"

The older hunter frowned, trying to figure out why he was laying down, his mind working slowly as it fought to catch up. _Did I just pass out? _He didn't make any move to rise, content to gather himself together first, get his head in order before tackling the physical stuff.

"Sniper fire?" Dean asked hopefully, joking, thinking that would be an acceptable reason for being laid out.

Sam looked around in alarm. Was Dean asking or telling him about snipers? Either way it wasn't good. His eyes carefully raked the cemetery trying to find whatever it was Dean might be referring to but as far as he could see, all was quiet, no sign of snipers.

When the younger man's puzzled gaze returned to his brother's face Dean asked, "Big bastard in the shadows?" Again, kind of an ill timed joke, another acceptable reason for being on the ground, tackled by something huge. He could deal with _that_ much better than he could deal with having just fainted.

Sam's eyes were wide and slightly panicked. Dean was delirious or hallucinating or something. "Do you know where you are?"

Dean's focus shifted lazily over his brother's shoulder and then back, "The flaming grave behind you is a bit of a giveaway."

_Okay not completely out of it_ Sam thought and his emotions slid from panicked down to concerned.

"Tell me I didn't just keel over," Dean said, his face wrinkling, not really wanting to hear the answer.

"Uh, okay."

"Son of a-," Dean uttered, disgusted at his body for letting him down. He reached out and grabbed his brother's arm to pull himself into a sitting position and Sam assisted by gripping Dean's shirtfront. When he was up, Dean buried his head in his hands and tried to master the dizziness that was threatening to lay him out again. He had the light headed, disoriented feeling of having ridden a rollercoaster too many times.

"God I hate rollercoasters," he groaned.

_Rollercoasters?_ The panicked feeling returned to Sam and he wanted to ask once more _do you know where you are?_ He kept a hold on his brother's shirt, not at all confident that he wasn't going to pass out again. After a few minutes in that pose Sam suggested, "Why don't you lay down while I refill the grave?"

The hands came away from Dean's face and he replied, "Nah, I'm okay."

Slowly the younger man loosened his grip, ready to grab on if neccessary, but Dean remained seated upright without Sam's support.

"I'm just going to fill the grave," Sam informed, not sure how much of what he was saying was actually registering. "C_all me_ if you need me." He looked into his brothers glazed eyes to gauge his understanding.

"I love that chick," Dean mumbled to himself, visions of Deborah Harry singing Call Me.

Sam shook his head in despair. _Who did Dean love?_ "Did you hear what I said?"

Dean met his brother's eyes. "You're going to fill the grave," he repeated, waving his hand dismissively. "Knock yourself out."

Sam was taken aback by the coherence. Dean was all over the place, rambling one minute, crystal the next, working on a wavelength all his own. The young hunter sighed and toyed with the idea of leaving the grave uncovered, just take Dean back to the motel and to hell with the finishing off. But he decided that his brother wasn't too bad, conscious and talking. His mind was working a bit randomly but that was nothing to panic about, hopefully a good night's sleep would fix that.

Sam picked up the shovel and as quickly as he could started returning the displaced soil into the unearthed grave. When the mound of soil was reduced by half Sam threw a quick glance at his brother to make sure everything was okay. Dean was lying down, facing skyward and Sam hoped he hadn't passed out again because the last thing he needed was another knock to the head. He was relieved when Dean brought a hand to his forehead and started massaging his temples, it meant he was conscious.

_He's fine_ Sam thought and returned to filling the grave. He felt a pang of guilt for not going to his brother's side, checking him out properly, but Dean probably wouldn't want attention right now and his priority was to finish off the task so they could leave. Besides, after the events of the last few days breathing was the new benchmark. If Dean was breathing he was fine.

When the grave was refilled, Sam went over to where his brother lay. It was a testament to how exhausted Dean was that he had fallen asleep on the hard cold ground. Sam gathered their equipment and took it to the car, before kneeling beside his brother and gently shaking him awake.

Dean woke with a start and his eyes darted wildly, scanning the surrounds, not sure where he was.

"Time to go," Sam soothed and pulled his brother to his feet, snaking an arm around Dean to take some of his weight, but Dean pushed him away with irritation, "Dude, I'm 26, I can walk."

Sam held his palms up in an apology and stepped back, watching with arms crossed as Dean took a few unsteady steps then stumbled to his knees.

"Yeah not so good tonight," Sam pointed out as he moved forward, put his hands under Dean's shoulders and lifted him back to his feet, then wound an arm around Dean's middle.

"The air is really heavy," Dean commented seriously. "Does it feel heavy to you?"

Sam sniffed a wry laugh and shook his head. "Way heavy."

"That's what I'm saying."

At the car Dean automatically veered toward the driver's door and reached for the handle. Sam pulled him away. "Don't even..."

"What?"

"You're not driving," Sam proclaimed in disbelief. "Shotgun or backseat."

Dean stared blankly at his brother as if he couldn't quite understand the words, then dropped his gaze to the ground and shuffled a little on the spot. "Where _is_ my shotgun?" he muttered, searching around his feet for the weapon, as if it might have been dropped.

"It's already stowed," Sam replied.

"Huh," a baffled expression crossed Dean's face.

"Just lie down in the back," Sam directed, opening the back door and pushing his brother through. Dean didn't object. He curled up on his side, knees drawn to his chest and his eyes fell closed before Sam had shut the door behind him.

As Sam drove back to the motel the plea ran through his head _God let this be over._

* * *

When Dean awoke he was confused to find that he was in bed at the motel and sunlight was streaming through the window. Last he remembered they were at the cemetery burning Casey's corpse, he had no recollection of leaving the cemetery or of returning to the motel. He stared at the ceiling for a moment trying to find the missing pieces but when they didn't come easily he abandoned the effort, he was too tired for puzzles and he didn't really care about the details.

He brought an arm over his head to block out the light, not ready to face the day yet.

Sam noticed his brother rouse and came over to sit next to him on the bed. Dean didn't move, didn't give his brother any cues to start a conversation. When he felt a hand on his forehead he pushed it off and rolled away but made a sharp intake of breath as he rolled over tender ribs and had to roll back toward Sam to find a comfortable position.

"Don't talk to me," Dean instructed without opening his eyes.

Sam breathed out a laugh. "Did you hear the banshee last night?"

"That's talking. No talking." But Sam's question sparked his interest. Had he heard the banshee? He couldn't remember hearing her. He was pretty sure that if there had been wailing he would have heard it, it had been hard to miss the last few nights. "I don't know if I heard her, I don't think so," Dean answered. "No more talking."

Sam moved away, back to his own bed where the laptop was powered up and he was half-heartedly attempting to find a new job. He felt like they were in limbo, he didn't know if the ordeal was over or not, if Casey was a spent force, if the banshee had stopped wailing. He suspected that it _was _over, he just couldn't be certain and he didn't want to take any risks with Dean's safety until he was.

It was late in the morning and Sam would have loved to go and get something to eat but he couldn't bring himself to leave his older brother unattended, the consequences of being wrong about the ordeal being over weren't worth it. Sam's stomach rumbled loudly and his eyes flicked toward his brother's prone form waiting for a wisecrack or even better a suggestion that they go and get some breakfast. But Dean was quiet, he had already drifted back to sleep.

All day Dean slept. Sam was determined not to worry about it. His brother had been through a lot in the past few days so it was natural that he was exhausted. He kept a close eye on Dean but there was nothing to suggest he was in any distress. Sam spent a dull day flicking through tv channels and surfing the internet, his biggest problem being finding something to eat. He knocked off what little was in the fridge pretty quickly and by the afternoon was rifling through their bags looking for anything edible. Sam had earlier noticed a vending machine in the motel reception and he gazed longingly out the window across the carpark. He thought very seriously about ducking over quickly to buy something but just couldn't work up the courage to do it. Yes Casey was probably gone, yes he would only be leaving Dean alone for a few minutes, but still, he couldn't bring himself to take the risk of something happening while he was gone.

The sun had set when Dean finally awoke. He was feeling clear headed and rested but out of sorts. There was a dark mood over him he couldn't really understand, the job was finished, Casey was gone, that banshee had stopped wailing, he should have been feeling celebratory but instead he was irritable, about nothing in particular, just generally unhappy. He attributed the mood to the many aches and pains that assailed him with every move he made. Falling into the grave last night had him hurting all over, he didn't know which part to clutch as he moved.

It quickly became apparent that Sam was starving. He fairly pounced on Dean as soon as he was awake and wanted to know what he felt like for dinner. Sam suggested ordering a pizza but Dean felt restless, he wanted some fresh air and a change of scenery, so an hour later they were sitting at their favorite diner.

As Sam pushed away his empty plate feeling completely sated, Dean still picked at his meal, trying to force food into a stomach that wasn't much keen.

"So you think this stuff with Casey is over?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Dean replied, "it's over. What a freaking nightmare this job turned out to be."

"Yeah," Sam agreed guiltily. He had chosen this job, brought them to this town and unbeknownst to Dean he'd had an ulterior motive for doing it. He looked down at his hands as he said, "You know there was a reason I chose this job."

"Yeah I know," Dean answered matter of factly.

The younger man looked at him sharply. "No, you don't."

Dean matched his brother's gaze. "You were hoping Dad would show."

Sam's eyebrows drew up in surprise. _Wow. __Dean did know._

"I knew it when you mentioned that Evans was in Dad's journal."

"Why – Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I knew Dad wouldn't show." Dean averted his eyes and lifted a shoulder in a half shrug, "You didn't tell so I didn't tell."

"Why not?'

"Because it's none of my business," Dean said vehemently.

"What's none of your business?"

"That you secretly wanted Dad to show," he replied with exasperation.

"Why not?" Sam remarked, starting to feel annoyed, and kind of foolish. "I would have thought it was all of your business."

_Whatever that means_ Dean thought and shook his head. Sometimes he wondered if Sam argued just for the hell of it, just to annoy him. "Look don't get pissy with me because I didn't answer a question you didn't even ask, I mean – give me a break."

Sam looked away. He didn't know why he had wanted to run into their father, all he and his Dad ever did was fight. It was strange, the thrill he'd got when he'd matched the David Evans in the newspaper to the David Evans in the journal and thought maybe their father would investigate the death of someone he knew, maybe they could all do it together. It had been naïve, he knew better than to hope for some sort of happy family experience, and he had realized that very soon after arriving in town.

But finding out Dean had known about his secret hope all along was humiliating, he felt like he had been humored as if he were a child. _Sammy misses Daddy so I'll go along with the job._ Feeling unkind, he lashed out with a question he knew Dean wouldn't want to answer.

"What did you mean last night when you said you were a means to an end?"

Dean's stomach dropped. It had been a smart ass point scoring comment that he should have kept to himself.

"I don't know." He gave a shrug, "I was on the downhill slide, I don't even remember saying it."

Where Dean stood, with Sam, and with their Dad, was one of those ambiguous truths that was going to lead to misinterpretation and misunderstanding if it was given voice. He wasn't the sort to dwell on things, certainly not relationship matters, but in the family unit, Dean saw himself as, and had fostered the role of, a capable off-sider, a facilitator. He'd spent most of his life playing the part with his father, providing support either by helping on a hunt or looking after Sam, and now, it was the reason his younger brother was sitting across from him. Sam wanted to avenge Jessica's death and he needed Dean's help to do it, to find what had killed her and deal with it. Sam wasn't with him out of love or loyalty, wouldn't be with him at all if Jessica hadn't died, and Dean wasn't precious about it. The reasons behind his brother's company didn't matter, what mattered was that they were together and righting the wrongs of the world. The only time it bothered him was when his limited appeal was pointed out, as it had been in Chicago recently, when Sam had said he was looking forward to killing the demon and getting back to college life. It had stung to hear that Sam had no interest in being with him once the quest for Jessica's killer was over. He didn't need Sam telling him how much he couldn't wait to leave, he didn't like being reminded that his value lay in what he could offer not in who he was.

But there was so much white noise in their relationship that he often forgot Sam was with him conditionally, temporarily. And when he did remember he didn't dwell on it, it was what it was, he just wanted to enjoy the ride, make the most of it and he'd take the hit when Sam left, as he'd taken the hit before. He'd survive another hit.

He didn't think he could explain all that to Sam, and he was pretty sure that if he tried Sam would get insulted or defensive or just react badly. Talking about things was only going to complicate them, much better that they avoid the topic altogether.

Dean turned his attention to the food in front of him, threw a couple of fries into his mouth, signifying a close to the conversation.

Sam narrowed his eyes. Dean remembered it alright, no way was the _means to an end_ comment was a throw away. And Sam thought he knew what it meant, to a degree anyway. After stewing on it all day he had come to the conclusion that Dean was feeling used. What other meaning could the words have? But he couldn't get any further than that in his circumspection, he couldn't quite figure out what Dean's problem might be.

"Do you think I'm using you?" Sam accused, jutting out his chin.

"For what?" the older brother countered.

"I don't know, you tell me."

"I don't know what you're talking about Sam."

"I'm talking about being a means to an end," Sam said deliberately. "Do you think I'm using you?"

"No Sam, I don't think you're using me. Quit being ridiculous," Dean snapped, the food he'd managed to choke down sitting heavily in his stomach.

"So what does it mean then? Why did you say it?"

"It doesn't mean anything. Seriously dude, get over it, you're fixating on nothing."

It was a frustrating game of cat and mouse that Sam was so tired of. Round and round they went, Sam trying to figure his brother out, tie down his thoughts and Dean being non-committal, keeping his thoughts locked.

"I don't think I can do this anymore," Sam said flatly. He picked up the paper napkin beside his left hand, swiped at his mouth, then crushed it in his fist and hurled it onto his empty dinner plate.

"What?"

"Play games with you."

"Who's playing games?" Dean exclaimed. "What is your problem tonight?"

"Shit, man, you're all games. Everything you say is carefully weighed and measured. And I don't get it. I'm your brother, why can't you just talk to me? What is so wrong with letting me know what's going on? I'm so sick of trying to guess your thoughts."

There was silence for a beat. Dean was a little stunned by the outburst, unsure how to respond. "I don't know what you want Sam," he remarked carefully. "I already tell you way more than I'm comfortable with. I'm not you, you know. I'd rather stick myself with a knife than share _feelings_. Maybe you need to reign in your expectations."

Sam regarded his brother with lips pursed. Dean was still avoiding the question, talking around it. There was no point pursuing the conversation, Dean could avoid all night.

"Can we go?" Dean asked. He was looking pale and Sam wasn't sure if it was because of the conversation or if he wasn't feeling well. Probably a little of both. The young man's eyes rested for a moment on the half eaten burger and fries on Dean's plate and he wanted to ask the question _are you feeling alright?_ but what was the point, he'd only get ducking and weaving.

"Yeah okay," Sam sighed.

There was very little conversation for the rest of the night. The brothers sat on their beds and watched a movie with maybe ten words spoken between them. It made Dean feel insecure. He knew he had pissed Sam off, not just tonight but over the whole job, it seemed that every way he turned, everything he said had pissed Sam off. And the words _I can't do this anymore _rang inDean's ears. Sam was going to suggest they go their separate ways, the more he tried to dismiss the idea the more convinced he became.

By the end of the movie Dean was feeling ill. Silent tension radiated off Sam, he was deliberately not looking at Dean, deliberately not talking and the older brother wanted to fall on his knees and plead for forgiveness.

As the credits rolled Dean commented, "Steven Seagal. Has the man ever made a bad movie?"

Sam gave a wan smile, then strode into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

When he returned Dean was sitting with his legs over the side of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, taking deep, slow breaths.

Sam paused uncertainly. "You alright?"

Dean swallowed. "Yeah. Although I may throw up."

"Okay," Sam replied and his mind whirled with possible reasons for the sudden change in his brother's health. He took a hesitant step toward him. "You want anything?"

"World peace," Dean shot back and gingerly pushed himself up, off the bed. The movement made him blanch and he swallowed deeply, waiting a few moments for his rubbery legs to find form. Sam moved closer and Dean put up a hand. "Be cool. I've got this."

He really didn't. He staggered to the bathroom and dropped heavily before the toilet, lifted the lid and crossed his arms over the bowl, closing his eyes. His stomach was churning and flipping but not rising which was annoying because Dean just wanted to get it over with. Sam knelt down behind him and rested a hand on his back, and Dean wanted to shove it off, yell at his brother that he knew he was leaving and a show of care was only going to make it harder.

His head began to spin, his fingers curled for grip on the porcelain. He had a crashing sense of despair. And the thought went round and round in his head that Sam was leaving and he had nothing to offer to make him stay. He had _nothing_. And if Sam didn't stay, then who was Dean? Dean was no-one by himself.

He couldn't counter the thought, or find the inner strength that usually sustained him. He didn't think he could survive the hit of Sam leaving again.

A sob escaped Dean, catching him by surprise, and could have been a cough but for the pressure behind his eyes telling him it was more. He was mortified. Sam was right next to him and he was coming unglued. More loud ragged breaths followed that Dean tried to swallow but his throat was tight, his chest was painfully constricted and he almost choked trying to stop, no choice but to let the miserable sounds out.

"Shit," Sam muttered, eyes wide as he realized what was happening. Dean was unravelling.

And that made Dean feel worse because he knew he shouldn't be doing this, knew that more was expected of him, that he was giving into weakness.

"It's okay man," Sam gently reassured. "It's over, you're okay."

Dean shook his head. It wasn't okay. His shoulders heaved with each breath, tears stung his eyes and fell onto his cheeks.

"Listen it was close, I'll grant you that," Sam continued in a calming voice, "I think I lost twenty years of my life from the worry and stress. But it's over and I think you're just having some sort of delayed reaction to it all."

A delayed reaction. Yeah, Dean grabbed onto that idea, because this wasn't him, he usually had great self-control. Maybe the events of the last few days _had_ messed with his head, and created within him the feelings of vulnerability and inadequacy and overwhelming self-doubt that were dragging him down.

Sam murmured to him about psychological trauma, near death experiences, aftermath and fallout. It all sounded like Dr Phil, armchair therapy, Dean wasn't sure how much of it Sam was making up and how much was true, but after getting over the initial desperation for Sam not to be a witness, accepting that he didn't have the energy or wherewithal to push his brother out of the room, Dean focussed on Sam's voice, letting the words and tone soothe him, reassure him, give him a foothold on optimism.

After a few minutes Dean wondered why exactly he was freaking out. Sam hadn't said anything about walking away. People fought and rubbed each other wrong all the time, didn't mean they walked away. He had created this drama out of nothing. But a nagging doubt remained. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was about to be blindsided.

Without raising his head Dean took advantage of a break in his brother's monologue to ask in a ragged, strained voice, "Are you going anywhere?"

Sam frowned. "Not right now," he replied slowly, not sure of the thrust of the question.

"Tomorrow or the next day, are you going anywhere?"

"I don't know," the younger brother said with confusion, "are we leaving this place tomorrow or the next day? Is there someplace you want to go? I don't know what you're asking me."

Dean didn't respond but was comforted by his brother's confusion. If Sam wasn't following the conversation then abandoning him couldn't be at the forefront of his mind. "Just tell me if you're going somewhere, alright?"

"I'm probably going to need the car, so I think you'll know," Sam joked, while secretly he floundered. Dean was talking in code, on his own wavelength again and it was scary because Sam felt like he was out of the loop, like he'd missed something. What exactly was Dean talking about? Where did he think Sam was going?

Gradually Dean's stomach stopped dancing, the tears stopped flowing, his body stopped trembling and he was back in control, but tired, tired beyond words. He took some deep steadying breaths. "Okay. I'm good. You can go," he proclaimed, swiping his face against his arms to rub away the wetness before lifting his head.

"Okay," Sam exhaled, flooded with relief. "You want some help getting up?"

Dean groaned at the thought of the effort. "I'll just sleep here tonight."

"Sure you will," Sam chuckled and hooked his hands under Dean's shoulders hauling him to his feet.

Dean felt embarrassed by the whole incident. God, what a performance. He just wanted to be left alone, he couldn't look at Sam. And he wanted a drink like never before, but he wasn't sure his stomach could stand it. He shuffled to the bed while Sam straightened the pillows and blankets.

"You want anything," Sam asked as Dean lay down. "Water or aspirin or anything?"

"Nah man, I'm good. Thanks," Dean replied with a sheepish grin which Sam returned before dropping heavily onto his bed and turning off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

Sam lay staring at the moonlight playing on the ceiling feeling completely rattled. Christ, what an eye opener that had been. He'd just witnessed some sort of mini breakdown. Dean had been completely out of control, totally freaking out, _tears_ even. When was the last time Sam had seen tears from Dean? He couldn't even remember.

He had a perception of his brother being impervious to everything, that nothing threw him, nothing touched him. But, clearly he was as vulnerable as the next guy and Sam found it a shock. Dean was tough and strong and cocky and aggressive but he was only human, things affected him and Sam forgot that sometimes, bought into the facade. The younger Winchester was back-peddling on everything he thought he knew about his brother.

When he analyzed his brother, really thought about Dean's character and the life he was leading, Sam realized that his brother was walking a mental tightrope, trying to appear impenetrable while holding onto secret fears, trying to be nonchalant about living on the edge of society, trying to buffer his younger brother from all that was wrong in the world and blaming himself when he failed. Add to that the fact that Dean had been dealing with the stuff of nightmares for over a decade, facing mortality on a regular basis. That was a lot of pressure. That was a life of constant stress. No wonder cracks were appearing.

As he listened to his older brother's regular breathing in the next bed Sam felt a surge of protectiveness toward him. Over the past few days Sam had worried about Dean physically, but now he could see he should have been worrying about him mentally as well and he wasn't going to make that mistake again.

* * *

Dean was coaxed through the layers of sleep by the smell of coffee. Real coffee. Bought coffee. And something else. Something sweetly foodish. He heard paper crinkling next to his head and cracked open an eye to a Dunkin Donuts bag.

"Sam, you're a genius," he said his voice thick with sleep.

The young hunter laughed. "For going out and buying coffee and donuts?"

"I think that may be the definition of genius."

Dean slowly sat up in the bed aware of every ache in his body but feeling okay despite it. His attitude had changed overnight, the depression had lifted and he was himself again - cool, capable, assured. He felt like he had shrugged off his anxieties and was ready to move forward, onto the next job.

"Coffee me," Dean held out his hand to Sam and was rewarded with an oversized takeaway cup. "You got me the ginormo," he commented with a smile, "you know me so well."

Sam looked away, momentarily uncomfortable.

It had been a wrench for him to leave his brother for food. Dean hadn't woken in the night and Sam was confident that meant the banshee wasn't visiting him anymore but it didn't mean Sam still didn't have lingering concerns. It had been three days of heightened awareness, constant alert and it wasn't easy dispensing with that. The young man was working toward finding a balance between trust and awareness, he knew he couldn't hover over Dean forever, he had to quell his fears.

"How do you feel?" Sam asked casually, taking a sip of his coffee, trying not to make it a loaded question.

"I feel like I'm ready to get out of this frigging town."

Sam gave a half smile then said, "What about Kimberley James? Should we do anything about her?"

"Nope," the older hunted returned decisively. "She's harmless and I'm not breaking my back digging up another grave to dispense with a spirit who's harmless."

"Okay," Sam responded agreeably, that was fine by him.

"I'll have a look on the computer later and see what I can find for us, because you are banned from picking any more jobs."

"Whatever," Sam returned with a grin, then his eyebrows drew down and he stared intently at Dean's throat.

"What? What is it?" the older hunter asked, his hand instinctively reaching for his throat.

"You're neck. It kind of makes a pattern. I think it's a-" Sam leaned closer, "- flower. Yeah it's a pansy, there's a pansy on your neck."

"Shut up," Dean laughed.

"Oh its beautiful, the colors are so vibrant, we should take you to an art gallery and stand you against a wall."

"You're an idiot," the older brother said with an affectionate shake of his head.

The brothers quietly appreciated the lack of purpose and concern that came with finishing the job, there was an uplifted mood in the room, an absence of tension. Their ordeal in this town was over and for the moment life was enjoyable. They knew that shortly they would go searching for more trouble and the upheaval would begin again but there was no need to dwell on that now. They had to make the most of the carefree times and let tomorrow take care of itself.

**THE END**


End file.
